


Chase the Morning

by Hermit9



Series: Sprawling Chaos [3]
Category: Altered Carbon (TV), Shadowrun, Supernatural
Genre: Altered carbon stacks, Alternate Universe - Altered Carbon Fusion, Alternate Universe - Shadowrun Fusion, Bobby Singer Lives, Canon-Typical Violence, Charlie Bradbury Lives, Cyberpunk, Drug Use, Dystopia, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Matrix - Freeform, Memories, Near Death Experiences, Overdosing, Sam isn't having a good time, Self-Sacrifice, Technomancer!Sam, There Is Only One Bed, dub-con kissing, no plan ever survives initial contact, roshambo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-14
Updated: 2019-12-13
Packaged: 2020-12-16 10:23:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 32,945
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21034718
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hermit9/pseuds/Hermit9
Summary: In the fallout of their Shadow rebellion, things have been hazy for the Winchesters. The black mark on their name wasn't unexpected, but bracing for impact doesn't lessen the pain.In the new status quo, Sam struggles.  He wants to prove that he can pull his weight and, in his own way, shine.  Easier said than done when one of the things he needs to break is his brother's overprotective instincts.An impossible task - built on more myth than fact - might allow him to do just that. Or it might lead him to a fall he can't climb back from.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> It's here! At long last! 
> 
> Sequel to "Needle in a Bug" so make sure you've read that one first or this won't make much sense. 
> 
> Beta by the lovelies: Bookscorpion, Pimentogirl and FestiveFerret.
> 
> Art by the incredibly amazing Pimentogirl! 
> 
> Many thanks to everyone over on Discord for putting up with me as I complained about writing this thing. It took forever.


	2. Loading Screen

The images sped up, floating and twinkling like the misfiring of lights on a gaudy Christmas tree. Sam snatched one, freezing the frame as the others continued to tick by, carefully labelling it and setting the snippet aside. Video surveillance was tedious and only ever made bearable via proper documentation. As it was, Sam was stretched as wide as he could get, smoke tendrils creeping into low-security systems until he had a dozen eyes unblinking over a sector of the city. Two of the windows flickered and went black, having run out of recorded data. Sam closed them and pulled himself back, looking for new viewpoints. The smoke recoiled and swirled back into his body like a slow exhale being run in reverse

_“Found her on Pine & 5th Ave._” Charlie’s voice made Sam look up. She pushed a cube of video his way, her expression inscrutable beneath the painted porcelain of the noh mask she wore. The raven feathers of her cloak flared as she settled next to him. Sam caught a glimpse of the bright stars swirling beneath the soft darkness. The cloak was bigger on the inside, and not everyone who dove into its depths came back out. Charlie had turned part of her persona into a gateway to her own private host. She’d let him glimpse the framework of it, and the sheer complexity had left him dizzy. 

“_Thanks. I was hoping to get more footage before she vanished in the Ork Underground._”

Charlie laughed, and though her expression didn’t change, her tone was both proud and triumphant. “_Behold! Oh, ye of little faith!_” Her hair billowed in unseen wind, bright red and long, tracing elegant curves modelled after the sun’s corona. A second crystal cube joined the first, the image on this one closer, less stable than the surveillance cameras Sam had been tracking. It moved and bounced, focusing on objects and people as it walked down the tunnel and through the checkpoints. 

“_That’s a cyber-eyes recording. I don’t have money for a tail near this level. I can’t afford this._”

“_Who said anything about paying?_”

“_I know you’re good enough to piggyback on the poor razor boy’s wares, but he’s making a point of keeping her in his line of sight. It’s not just a hack._”

“_It’s not. But it’s on the house. Your money’s no good with me and you know it._” 

Sam groaned. He wished he could refuse the favour, but he needed this job and Charlie was handing him the only way he was going to get any real coins out of the surveillance. They were barely scraping by, even by standards distorted by years on the mean, barren streets.

Jobs were hard to get. The Mr. Js would meet Dean’s eye, take in the danger in his presence, the sparkle of free-will in his gaze. Sam could see the facial recognition ping on their comlink, the flash of information as it was relayed to their ARO display. Then they would get up and excuse themselves, or walk out of the alley, or tell security that they weren’t expecting visitors. Over and over. Dean tried to smile and shrug it off, but Sam could see the weight of it on his shoulders, in the set of his jaw. Their stand against NeuroStar marked them, untouchables, too volatile for even the suicide runs. They had known the cost going in. It didn’t lessen the sting as much as it should. 

“_Fine_,” he said at length, turning back to his collections of screens. He found a few more fragments, a few frames, a glimpse of laughter or of the softer smiles that weren’t meant to be seen by others. Psychological privacy was what it was called, the ability to make the world disappear outside of a limited circle. He stripped away the illusion methodically, moment by moment.

“_Ok, she went in,_” said Charlie. “_Can’t follow no more.”_ Sam glanced at the floating cube. The recording had stopped, but the stream still showed the cave-like structures of an underground housing complex, built from the ruins of the old city and looking a bit like the terraced mounds created by termites. It was hard to tell windows from doors, save for the dotted light strips that lined the main pathways like emergency lights on a plane. _“By my count, you’re out of time,_” added Charlie, with a tilt of her head, making light catch on the brightly painted red lips of her mask, the smile mocking at this angle. A loud, buzzing ring drowned out her voice. She touched her temple lightly in a salute as the looped alarm pulled Sam away and back towards himself. 

He opened his eyes to the omnipresence of Dean’s worry and guilt, fussing over him like a mother-hen and just shy of actual cooing. Dean had been insisting on shorter and shorter jacked-in windows and longer breaks. As it was, it was a miracle that Sam could get any work done. The official reason was to prevent pressure sores. Sam could understand wanting to cut back on medical costs, but he had the situation under control. He figured a lot more of it came from Dean’s need to be needed. If no one wanted Dean’s skills or skin, his brother didn’t know what to do with himself. Cas only had so much free time and stamina.

“I’m fine, De,” he said as he sat up. He had to admit waking up was easier these days. His limbs felt less like dead lead and more like functioning parts of his body. He ran a hand over his face and through his hair before glancing at the bedside table. Lukewarm water and soy crackers. Again.

“How’d it go?” Dean was looking at him, focused on any body part that wasn’t his eyes. Sam sighed. Dean didn’t understand the Matrix and what he didn’t understand he disliked. Intensely, irrationally. 

"Here's your proof that the lady has been most unchaste." Sam flicked his fingers, sending the bundle of video to Dean’s comlink. “Should be enough to make the drop, get paid.” 

"Most unchaste? Who the hell even speaks like this? You listen to too many of those cheap dramas." 

"You try and remain sane while looking for this crap." 

"You say that like it's hard... Man, I can't help but feel sorry for her." 

"Now? Now you have misgivings? After I have spent a month looking at footage of the daughter of the humanis polyclub leader as she stumbles in bed with roughly half the Ork Underground?"

Dean cycled through the video, squinting at the tiny screen of his comlink. He couldn’t have seen more than vague shapes and shadows. “I just… this will probably ruin her life, you know?”

“Yeah, well, I can’t afford to have regrets Dean, and neither can you. Unless you have something else lined up for us?” It was a useless pointed barb, and Sam regretted it as the words left his mouth. There was no take-back possible; he saw it in the way Dean’s chin jutted out as his eyes hardened. Sam swung his legs off the bed and shivered once he felt how cold the floor was. Bobby had turned the heating down as low as it could go and the autumn nights were growing colder. “I’m going for a run,” he said. Dean didn’t answer, still flicking through the surveillance.

The air outside wasn’t freezing, in fact, it was barely cooler than the interior of the house. It still hit Sam by surprise, even though the stifling filtering mask, making him choke on his breath until his lungs and diaphragm got with the program. It wasn’t raining, for once, and not even windy. The clouds hung thick and made the light anonymous, tricking the eye into seeing the ash as suspended more than falling. Sam reached the corner of the junkyard and aimed North. Towards the old city center.

It wasn’t that the barrens changed much, or drastically. But the streets were a little cleaner, the lamps worked more often than not, creating pockets of light, like islands of false-safety. For a few blocks, there were even proper in-uniform cops and utilities no one needed to hack their way into. Sam guessed the veneer of civility made him nostalgic for a time he’d never known. 

Along with the public spending improvement, came the AROs, the augmented reality lights flickering on as he ran. They soothed an itch he couldn’t explain, made him feel more grounded in his body when he could feel the information stream envelop him in the way it just couldn’t when he was deeper in the barrens. Combined with the runner’s high, it made him just shy of euphoric. Short of being downtown or soaring in a near UV host, he hadn’t reached that stage in a long time, not since Dean had cut him off. 

A stitch working up his right side shook him out of it, slowing his run to a stroll as he caught his breath. His legs were cramping and sweat ran down his back despite the cold. Above him, the public display billboard flickered in rotation. Pictograms indicated the numbers of available beds at the hospital as well as the water boiling advisory everyone ignored. If drinking the water was what killed you, you were already ahead of the game. 

A chime announced a connection a second or so before the icon resolved into his field of vision. The persona was very detailed, almost too much for a simple call. Sam tasked a sprite with his routine counter-trace as he answered. The voice masking was already built-into his persona, but he didn’t have time to tweak it to hide any out-of-breathness. 

“Yes?” he asked. 

“_I have a job offer for you_,” said the rabbit with the voice of a girl in her mid-twenties. “_I will send you the coordinates for a meet._” 

“_That’s… forward_.” Sam flicked the counter-trace that was standing still. It had nothing to scrawl back up, and he debated how rude he could afford to be by initiating a trace of his own.

“_You’ve finished your previous engagements, and are advertised as looking for more,_” the rabbit stated. There wasn’t even a shadow of a question in her tone. “_The venue is accommodating, but I recommend a change of attire_.” A pause. “_A shower would not go amiss. You may come with as many of your teammates as you deem necessary_.”

The rabbit hopped away, using the ambient matrix object to jump up a path. Sam watched it go until it vanished and he was left staring at the black, placid, unblinking eye of the surveillance camera over the door of a sex club. His comlink chimed again with a business card and a timer, ticking down with a ninety-minute window. Sam watched the numbers scroll, numb, for almost a full minute before calling Dean. He didn’t have time to run home. 

The coffee house was nestled one street removed from Loveland, close enough that the sticky miasma of cheap booze and sex still lingered on the pavement, but far enough that much of the sounds died down into meaningless noise. The interior was almost aggressively happy, painted in primary yellow and blue with pink details and leopard-print faux-fur upholstery. Most of the space was taken up by a take-out bar and the gutted structure of a carousel where patrons slouched over the tin animals, data-jack wires running up the poles in optic fibre coils. 

Dean made a sound, low in his throat, that was halfway between disgust and glee. “So. This is the meet point?” 

“Yeah.” Sam spotted the rabbit persona on a table, nose twitching and fur so densely detailed it probably packed sensory feedback. It was a decadent display of wanton processing power. “Over there.” 

A woman was seated at the table. Sam’s guess of mid-twenties based on the voice wasn’t far off, though he was having a hard time pinpointing her age beyond that. Her hair was a mid-tone brown, bundled up on top of her head in a large bun, and her eyes were cold as she watched them walk in. 

“Thank you for being punctual,” she said. 

“Sure, no problem,” Sam answered, taking a seat. “You clearly know who I am, this is Squirrel.” Dean nodded and sat down next to him, body turned a bit away from the table, scoping the other patrons. “So, hum, why the meat space rendez-vous. Why not give me the details when you found me?” 

The rabbit hopped down from the table and puffed into a storm of hair and dust around them as it hit the ground. It blurred Sam’s vision, making it hard to discern his own hands until he forcibly shut down all augmented reality overlay. Dean hissed and cursed beside him, flinching and covering his ears so at least some of that wasn’t only a Matrix screen. Sam frowned; he hadn’t known Dean got hearing wares implanted. He’d have to look into it, make sure they weren’t hijackable, and Dean _really_ needed to stop hiding mods from him.

“White noise screen,” explained the woman. 

“I figured,” said Dean, with a tilt to his head like he was trying to shake water out of his ears. “A warning would have been nice.” 

“You may call me Alice. And if you wanted to keep something from being known to your household, where would you discuss it?” She tilted her chin towards Dean, making the implication clear. 

“The Matrix. I get it. What do you need me to dive for?”

“I need you to find something.” She picked up a tablet from the backpack by her side. It was a rough-edged homemade thing. Sam guessed it didn't have Matrix capacity. “Before I show you, we need to know you will take the job. Standard rate plus hazard pay and medical. One third now, the rest upon completion.” Her tone was factual and oddly flat. Either the lack of affect was a symptom of something much bigger or she was under enough mood modifiers to make it appear so.

Sam didn’t think it was pure professional detachment. It went too far the other way, like a kid refusing to walk near their food hidey-hole but bringing attention to it by the avoidance. 

“Hazard pay?” he asked, puzzled.

“We are not the only interested party. How you engage with them, if it comes up, is up to you.” She shrugged as if competing contracts were nothing to be bothered with. 

“What kind of medical?” asked Dean, turning back towards the table. Negotiations had always been his domain.

“Emergency care, with the exclusion of magical healing, would be covered.” She tilted her head before adding, “Delta clinic.” 

Sam stifled a groan. Whoever she represented was exceedingly well informed. Dangerously so. He could almost hear the gears ticking in Dean’s mind.

“Keep the care, we get to call in a favour at that clinic later. Thirty percent for the hazard pay. If we need specialized gear we can call for an advance.” Dean turned to Sam and raised an eyebrow, seeking approval. Sam nodded. Of course. They didn't have the money to get Bobby to the clinic, but having access was a stepping stone.

Alice reached out and shook Dean’s hand. “We have a deal.” She passed the tablet over to Sam, unlocking the display with a fingerprint scanner.

“What am I looking at?” Sam asked. 

The photographs were technical, taken against a grid and with a ruler for scale. They looked like something from a police report or an R&D lab. The object documented was small and oddlly shaped. Sam frowned and flipped the tablet until the angle clicked in his brain. It looked like vertebrae, with dips and nubs in the bone, but where the spinal cord would go was some sort of metallic cover. It looked organic and uneven, like petrified soap bubbles or the patterns of mold growing over long-dead meat. Something glowed beneath the surface in a pleasing shade of blue-green.

“A quantum drive, pre-crash tech.”

Dean whistled, and Sam had to agree with him. This was old, rare, and probably exquisitely expensive.

“You want me to find you one of those?” Sam let a bit of disbelief bleed into his voice. Pre-crash tech was all but lost, about as mythical as Atlantis. Maybe more than Atlantis, in recent years. 

“Not _‘one of_._” _She scoffed, breaking the emotionless mask for the first time. “_This one_. There are no others like it. I want you to find and bring back the drive and its contents.”

“What’s on it?” Sam flicked through the pictures, pinching and zooming to take a closer look. He had no idea how he even was supposed to interface with the thing to verify if the content was intact. 

“Nothing you should bother yourself with.” The answer came a bit too fast and matched with a dismissive hand wave. 

“Yeah, with all due respect I call bullshit on that,” said Dean. he grabbed the tablet out of Sam’s hands and handed it back over to Alice. “Or you wouldn’t have mentioned it at all.” 

He was rewarded by a hint of a smile because of course Dean could squeeze a smile out of the hardest stone. “Good point. The content is important, but it cannot be replicated without the drive. We’ve traced the drive to the Seattle Crime Mall, but the data trail vanishes there.” Alice took the tablet back and scooted her way around the table. “I will send the picture and a number to call for any cash or equipment request to your comlink. This credstick"—She gave an unlabelled credstick to Sam as she passed him—"will refill as needed until you’ve reached your total fee.” 

Sam and Dean waited for a minute after she had left the coffee shop to move, with Dean claiming her previous spot across the table and pulling up the scrolling menu on the table.

“Score. This place has pie. Want a piece? Let’s not waste the drive here.”

“Uh, yeah, sure,” Sam answered, distracted. He’d turned his ARO display back on and the rabbit persona was still on the table, looking at him with ruby red eyes. 

“_If you can’t secure the drive, destroy it._” 

Sam didn’t bother trying to trace the connection to his comlink; he knew he wouldn’t find one. There was a cold, heavy, weight in his stomach. Was this what people meant by someone ‘walking on their grave,’ back when burial grounds had been active? 


	3. The Mall

A lifetime and several ecological catastrophes ago, the Crime Mall had been a normal mall. A three-story construction of blind walls, the discoloration betraying the age of the different additions. There had been marquees on the outside once, in bright customer-friendly colours, to draw the consumers into the sprawling three-winged structure. The bright neon signs had been stripped down along with the barrens until the mall was nothing but an empty shell; a white elephant’s corpse ready to be claimed.

The Fences had settled in first, followed by their underworld handlers. The flood gates had opened after that. If it could be bought, it was sold at the Crime Mall. Vehicles, magical artifact, tech the Corps didn’t know had hit the streets, indentured servitude, and every drug under the sun. If one had the nuyen for it, anything was possible. Getting inside the door was the real challenge. 

Dean parked probably further away from the door than was strictly needed. It only made the Impala stand out more, sleek and low. The sodium lights of the parking caught on the chrome in orange highlights to cut the streaks of ashes. Sam shook his head. He wasn’t as devoted to the car as Dean was, but he had to admit she looked better than the boxy vans and crotch-rocket bikes most of the other runners favoured. More conspicuous, by far, but so old she didn’t have any electronic system that could be subject to a hostile take-over.

“So, you really think we’ll find something here?” Dean asked as they walked towards the entrance. The large doors were flanked with ballistic glass, etched and coloured so as one approached they looked like wings or flutters of feathers. Sam was fairly certain there were other access points in and out of the Crime Mall, but snooping around for them would be rude.

“Well. I mean, it’s the last stop on the data trail. Gotta start somewhere.”

“That’s a big haystack.” 

“Yeah, I know.” 

As they came in range, Sam could feel the butterfly soft touch of optical scanners. The scanners were taking them in, inventorying weapons and classifying threat levels. They wouldn’t be asked to surrender their guns, but they were as good as peace bound. Both of their comlinks chimed with a welcoming sound and the doors hissed open to let them in. Sam took a moment to wipe his feet on the thick, industrial carpet as he removed his mask. Security stood at attention along the walls on either side of the door, automatic weapons at the ready and their faces obscured by armoured helmets. Sam nodded at them as he passed, aiming for friendly and harmless.

Sensors followed his gaze and icons appeared, hovering over the guards, identifying where he could find the gear and displaying performance statistics (Lightweight armour! Extra gel packs to diffuse ballistic hits! Night vision and flare compensation combo!) as well as navigation assists in competing guide strings to one store or the next. Sam did a double-take on the last guard, trying to puzzle what, exactly, was being marketed at him.

“Titanium barbells with customized ends?” he mumbled out loud.

“Kinky, Sammy. Since when are you into purely decorative body mods?”

“Shut up,” said Sam, feeling a blush creep up his neck.

He pushed ahead of Dean and out of the security clearance zone. The foyer proper was a large, open space with escalators climbing up and down the shop galleries. Water cascaded down from the third floor, in a complex pattern of fake rocks and dancing streams. It broke in misty rainbows under the daylight calibrated make-belief skylights. Pails were left by the side of the fountain, kept clean and orderly, as an offering and a show of hospitality. 

“Wanna try the souk first?” asked Sam.

“Sure. Why not.” 

The souk was half flea-market, half organized chaos. Vendors rented floorspace, sometimes down to the square inch, and pitched their wares to anyone who walked by. Most of it was low-quality junk, scoffed guns and nearly spent chips. There were the odd artisans selling their work and tiny Izakayas that were standing-room only but served bowls of hot ramen. It was loud and garish in the gritty, physical way Dean thrived on and that grated on each and every one of Sam’s nerves after a while. 

Two hours of digging through bootlegs and off-brand knock-offs was definitely pushing Sam’s tolerance level. Plus, it wasn’t like they were getting anywhere.

Dean seemed to reach the same conclusion, or maybe his weird spider-sense was kicking in to warn him about an incoming fight. “We’re going to have to go up the stores,” he said.

Sam ran his hand through his hair. “Split? Check-in, one hour? We’ll cover more ground.” 

Dean side-eyed him for a solid minute before relenting. “Guess that makes sense. Call me if there’s any sign of trouble.” 

“Who would be stupid enough for that, here?” Sam scoffed. He walked away before Dean could answer, making it about four steps before the soft hum of Dean’s comlink connecting made him chuckle. He flicked the channel to mute for now, so he wouldn't have to deal with commentary from the peanut gallery as he investigated. Maybe he’d pick up a red balloon somewhere, so he could be found in the crowd like a 6’ 4” toddler. 

The escalators leading out of the souk were set to a slow pace, allowing the patrons to gaze over the open space below them, across the fountain and the foyer. Habit made Sam scan to spot Dean in the crowd, which only opened his sensors to layers upon layers of ARO, cascading in a bid for attention. The sudden kaleidoscopic surge was enough to make him dizzy. He swayed as he gripped the handrail and closed his eyes in a sheer protective reflex. 

“You appear troubled,” a voice said to Sam’s left. There had been no movement there, no body warmth to warn of a presence even a second beforehand. “I would be a terrible host not to offer respite. Here, I have upgraded your customer classification, on the house, of course.” 

Sam blinked his eyes a few times to test the new settings a few times. The badly overlaid data was gone. He let out a relieved breath. “Thanks, Poe.”

“Please, don’t mention it.”

Sam smiled. He liked the mall’s Semi-Autonomous Knowbot, even though a small part of his mind winced at the probable cost of keeping him up and running. That type of hardware cost more per month than the Winchesters made in most years.

“I didn't think it was possible to tell ARO to stop targeting someone,_ without_ using the filters on my physical comlink.”

Poe phased through the banister to follow as Sam stepped off the moving stairs, with a playfully insulted expression on his face. It made his eyes sparkle and deepened the crow's feet that reached all the way back to the impeccably trimmed sideburns that framed his face.

“I am the master of my own Domain,” Poe answered with a wink. It was one of those slightly too human-quick switches that made people think he wasn't a Knowbot at all. The tamest whispers spoke of a security spider, some poor soul owned so thoroughly by the crime syndicates that his meat suit was kept in a permanent medical coma. Others spoke of things almost more outlandish. “If I do declare that your senses are not to be assaulted by the miasma of unbridled consumerism, who would stand to challenge me?”

“Well. However you made it happen, I appreciate it.”

“Now that the unpleasantness is past us, how may I be of assistance this evening? On any other night, I would have vaunted the carnal delights that can be found in the perfumed skin of the live auctions, or advised that the eastern wing is holding a Corporation sponsored pie tasting buffet? However, I noticed you searching quite thoroughly through the dregs, so I believe you are after a more singular purchase?”

“Oh man,” Sam said while stifling a laugh, “you should totally let D—Squirrel know about that last one.”

There was a pause, and Poe looked past Sam before nodding with a small pleased smile. “Your associate has been informed of the proceedings, as well as of the most recent arrivals at Midori’s, from the Empire of the Rising Sun.”

“Stop right there. I, under no circumstances, want to know what interests him at the sex shop.”

“Your preference has been noted.”

The holographic presence fizzled as Sam entered the store. The west wing was technologically themed, offering computer parts both used, “used”, and new from para-legal distribution channels. Art’s store was eclectic, a collector’s store with individual items displayed with obsessive care in atmosphere controlled cases. A pristine vinyl record player glistened in one, the wood so well cared for it looked almost liquid under the light strips. It contrasted with the blacker than black surface of the portable solar panel array next to it. 

“Ah-ah, no. No no no,” said Art, standing up from his alcove by the door. He wasn’t a tall man, but he hunched and curled in upon himself, as if trying to use as little space as possible. He moved with stuttering motions, in stops and pauses and bursts of speeds. “You. I know you. You’re trouble. I don’t want trouble. Out now. Out, out out.” 

Surprised by the unexpected reaction, Sam stumbled backwards to avoid the clockwork-like shooing motions. The security railing rattled down as soon as his feet cleared the threshold out of the store and into the corridor. 

“I apologize for insisting,” said Poe, as he flickered into existence next to Sam, picking non-existent lint off the sleeve of his brown wool suit. “Natheless, if you would but tell me what your heart desires, I may direct my proclivities into seeing that it is fulfilled.” 

Sam turned the idea over in his head for a while, looking back at the locked-up store and the row of others down the corridor. If he could cross some off his list, it’d gain him some time. “Alright, I’m looking for a pre-crash piece of tech.” He pulled up one of the clearer images to send to Poe. “I know it went through here, and I’m trying to pick up the trail.”

“Oh yes, such a delectable morsel.” Poe held a 3D rendition of the drive in his hand, where it sat easily enough to be hidden in a fist. “Forsooth, I did see its likeness change hands within my halls. You’ll understand, of course, that the identity of the buyer is sacrosanct? They might instill in most people nothing more than a vague disgust and draw the contempt deserved by the lowest of the slubberdegullion, but they are still a guest?”

“Figured as much. Could you tell me who sold it, if not who they sold it to?”

Poe didn’t answer verbally, turning toward Art’s store with an apologetic shrug. 

“Well fuck,” Sam breathed out with resignation. There wasn’t much else to say. He’d have to figure out some workable stake-out pattern with Dean, maybe get Cas involved. It wouldn’t do to confront Art on secured grounds, but the little man had to step out at some point. Sam doubted that anyone would really live within the Crime Mall itself. Not on a voluntary basis anyway. 

“As regrettable as this development might be, I am optimistic that is is for the best.”

“How do you figure that?”

“My security should be plenty to keep the party you seek to interrogate safe, until such time as he is no longer under my protection.”

“Safe from what?”

“I do not think the current theatrics in the lobby are unrelated to what you seek. You may call me cynical, but I have no faith in things such as coincidence.” 

Curiosity piqued, Sam crossed the corridor to look down over the foyer. The guards that had been previous hidden away in the alcoves were in full deployment now, the first line kneeling and the second standing, with weapons at the ready. The crowd had backed away, with the civilians crouching underneath the tables in the souk or streaming into the mall and away from the fight. 

“_What the hell? You seeing this?_” Dean asked over the coms.

“_Yeah. Not sure what’s going on_.” Sam spotted Dean’s gait coming out of the East wing, opposite his own vantage point. He was being impeded by the stream of people but making progress. He wasn’t the only one headed toward the door. Runners, gangers, underworld soldiers, anyone who traded in death and violence. Movement near the door caught Sam's eye, and he got a good look at exactly who had triggered the response. “_Shit._”

“_If they’re here for us, we’re so screwed_,” said Dean at the same moment. 

The man was wearing bright red armour, lacquered and polished like a jewel. It was styled after a historical samurai’s armour, including the horned helm he carried under one arm. Unlike historical _Ō-yoroi,_ it moved with him like a second skin, without the weight of leather and iron plate and with every possible bleeding-edge advantage. It could withstand a rocket launch to the chest if the leaked benchmarks were true. A second man was following him, without the peace offering of a removed helmet. He held the machine gun by his hip as if it weighed no more than a typical assault rifle. 

“You’re missing three,” Sam said to Poe, absentmindedly. “Red Samurais work in teams of five.”

“There is one just outside of the doors, I am scanning for the others.” 

A screen appeared in Sam’s field of vision, ever so slightly to the side so it wouldn’t block his direct line of sight. He pinched at the image to zoom in, smirking as the camera adjusted its focus rather than the image simply stretching to the command. The woman outside held an assault rifle, slung over her shoulder but pointed at the ground. She had one hand on the handle, ready to change her grip if needed. But she was standing a hair too stiffly, her eyes too wide and seeming unfocused. Light glinted off her hip and off her arm, in ways that could have been lense flare and spotlights over the armour, if Sam hadn’t spent so much time absorbing Cas’ magical knowledge through sheer osmosis.

“She’s the spellcaster,” he said. “If you can make the doors opaque you could control the damage she can do.”

“I’m afraid that possibility is outside the scope of what is available to me, but I shall note it for future remodelling.” 

Movement caught Sam’s eyes as parts of the ceiling retreated along well-oiled tracks, allowing pop-up turrets to drop down, rotating to aim at the two figures in the foyer. Matching reticules appeared on the screen that still displayed the exterior of the door, targeting the mage: one to her head and one roughly at center mass. It was oddly reassuring that Poe seemed to abide by the ages-old Runner’s rule: geek the mage first. 

“I am touched by the welcome,” the man in the lobby said, projecting his voice with the ease of practice, demonstrating that he was — and always expected to be — in charge. “My name is Victor Henriksen. I’m here to retrieve something that was stolen.” He left the ‘_from us_’ unspoken. Red Samurais belonged to Renraku as prints belonged to a finger. If the top of the line Spec Ops unit was being dispatched, the Corp wanted something and wanted it bad. “We can play this two ways. One: you let us in, and we make someone very rich. Two: you don’t. And we’ll sort out what we need from the wreckage.” 

The silence that followed felt heavy and tense. It wasn't a true silence, it was broken by a few hushed whimpers and the shuffle of boots on tiled floors. Henriksen smiled, a bright smile that brimmed with self-assurance and bordered on playful. Like this was a game to him, and he was indulging the children in playing their make-belief. His companion didn’t move, but Sam could have sworn he heard the quiet click of the safety being turned off on the mini-gun. It was impossible, considering the distance, but he knew it was true.

“If I may,” whispered Poe though there was no need for it. He couldn’t be overheard. “A strategic retreat would be for the best and I can ensure your extraction in the most discreet of ways.”

“_Take the offer, Sammy_,” said Dean, with suspiciously good timing. He’d probably been speaking with his own instance of Poe. “_I’ll buy time. Go._” 

Sam gripped the railing as he watched Dean make his way to the front of the crowd, Dean with his charming smile and his confident swagger and just a hint of cockiness. It was a look he wore well, mostly when he was trawling a bar for a hookup, or using himself as bait. It was a dare: _come and wipe it off my face_. The familiarity did nothing to calm the panic that was growing in Sam’s gut. Dean’s jacket was armoured and he had a pistol at the small of his back, but he might as well not have had either for all the difference it would make. Sam knew how devastating the Valiant mini-gun was; he’d seen the videos. One in every ten bullets on the belt was a tracer, and in use, it looked like it was firing an uninterrupted beam of light. It would tear his brother apart in less than the blink of an eye. 

“How rich are we talking, here?” Dean was saying, down on the floor that was too close and impossibly far out of Sam’s reach. “Retiring in the Caribbean League rich, or good night at the bar rich?”

“That all depends on what you’re willing to give, and how fast. For you, it might even be enough to buy a new name.”

“Whoa, easy there. You’re supposed to buy me a drink before asking me to bend over. Or is that not something they teach you in your ivory tower? Different social rules there, right?” A ripple of amusement coursed through the crowd. Subdued, but it broke some of the tension, lessened the intimidation factor. 

Victor’s smile vanished into a tight-lipped grimace just shy of neutral. “Is that really how you want to play with the lives of all the people here, _Winchester_?”

“Now, perhaps, might be a good time?” asked Poe, still speaking softly.

Sam nodded, swallowing around the fist somehow lodged in his throat. His mind felt like a mirror someone had gone for with a crowbar, each sharp edge a different flavour of fear. They knew Dean’s name — Dean’s real name — probably knew his as well, and Bobby’s and everyone they ever spoke to. Shit. _Shit shit shit shit shit._

He followed Poe to a door that Sam would have sworn hadn’t been there before, down flights of stairs and through a maze of stockrooms and maintenance galleys. Poe flickered ahead of him in silence, pointing out a turn or a door. Sam didn’t say anything, there was nothing to say. The channel to Dean’s comlink stayed dead silent, but Sam couldn’t tell if it was because of signal interference or because there was nothing to listen for. 

The last door hissed open on smooth hydraulic track and the sudden brightness of the room beyond made Sam’s eyes water. He shielded them on instinct as he stepped out into a large white on white on glass display room. He was somehow at the end of the North wing, in an indoor car lot. A few dozen people milled around, a mix of gangers and ranking underworld bruisers with a few runners. Multiple instances of Poe were talking to them, like a nightmare of identical faces saying different things with different expressions. Sam blinked and they resolved into a single instance, whatever glitch had caused the issue must have been intermittent.

“Blackbird has agreed to supply escape vehicles, due to the circumstances,” Poe was saying, with a bow of his head towards the man who was obviously in charge. He was tall, easily as tall as Sam though leaner. Both sides of his head where shaven to better showcase the high fluted points of his ears, though an ink-black braid gathered the rest of his hair, reaching below his shoulder blades. 

The elf looked Sam up and down and picked a set of keys in front of him. “It’s a loan,” he said. “Bring it back in one piece.” Then he tossed the keys over, in an easy overhand lob. “When I give the signal, everyone will need to go at once. Makes everyone harder to follow if you can create a bit of chaos.”

“Thank you,” said Sam and he realized he meant it. The keys were tracking back to a beautiful bike, sleek and powerful. Under the aftermarket pearlescent sea-glass paint and the carefully filed off serial numbers, Sam would have said it probably started its production life intended to be a combat bike. 

“I cannot begin to even have an opinion on where you should go next,” said Poe as Sam threw a leg over the bike to get a feel of the weight of it as he waited for the signal. “But I would be lying if I told you that I didn’t know the identity of the party that brought your item for sale in the first place.” He stopped, dramatically, until Sam looked him straight in the eyes. “And Mr. Fizzles has a prenatural sense to pinpoint when I’m being a liiiiaaar.” 


	4. The Farm

When the signal came, they burst out of the oversized garage doors like a murmuration built on stolen steel and fuel cells. Sam weaved through the mess of it on instinct more than sight, curled as close to the bike’s chassis as he could. There had been a quiet understanding in that garage: that everyone was out on their own except the handful of civilians. They had the smaller bikes, the car that would lack agility, and no armour to protect them. Sam didn’t know why Poe, or the Powers behind him, had deemed them worthy of being part of the exodus, but it didn’t matter. They were put at the center of the mass, casually, as if it was chance. There was no love lost amongst strangers — each out to save their own skin — but they would draw fire away from the woman with her newborn tied to her chest, away from those who had even less of a chance of fighting back. Doing anything less would have been a shade too inhuman.

He heard the groaning crash of metal behind him, but he couldn’t have turned to look even if he wanted to. There were screams mixed with the screech of tires and the growls of engines and yet he swore he could hear the crackle-pop of gunfire behind them. It faded as the bike flew over the bitumen until it rang in his mind. The flock had dispersed as they’d gotten further from the mall, turning down side streets and alleys to obscure lines of sight. The Jackrabbit with the young mother inside had made it to a parking structure and vanished into its concrete maw. Sam hoped there had been enough people and enough trajectories to lose any airborne drone surveillance. 

He stopped after what felt like a lifetime, having looped and snarled his path so much that he wasn’t quite sure where he was anymore. He hid at the mouth of an alley, covered by the tangle of off-regulations balcony built like scaffolds holding sickly looking tomatoes and capsicum plants in recycled pots. The leaves were curled and yellowed but untouched by ash, far enough north from Puyallup to be out of the fallout. There was no word from Dean on his comlink. Sam swallowed and decided against calling Bobby. As long as he didn’t hear the words, Dean would be safe. 

He needed to keep moving if only to keep himself from falling apart.

The citygrid on the bike’s autodrive was all but useless out of the civilized zones. The streets were recorded as pristine lines of urban planning but were desperately out of sync with reality. They showed pathways that once would have been viable if not for the gang turfs and the barricades fragmenting any route. Except for the highways. Sam frowned and flicked at the map, tracing the curving path of route 405. It would keep him away from the downtown area, up through Renton and Bellevue. And get him to Everett before night fell upon the Sprawl. He checked the gun holstered under his jacket and muttered a prayer before gunning the engine. 

The ramp onto the highway was as clear as it ever got. Sam wove his way through the cars, ignoring the rude gestures of the drivers he passed. Traffic inched along, five vehicles abreast, beater commuter cars mixed with the massive automated transport trucks. Data streams poured into the latter from beyond the clouds like giant puppet strings pulling them along their route. Law indicated that all automated transport needed to have a rigger on board for emergency situations but the reinforced armoured plates around the cabins made that impossible to tell. Sam took extra care to remain where the sensors could bounce off him, marking his presence as he passed them. Each and every one of them sent a shudder down his back and reminded him of stories of ghost ships when he was a child. 

The fact that the big rigs thinned out and disappeared should have been his cue. Commuter traffic had drizzled to nothing as he neared Redmond, but that had been expected. Nobody went to Redmond, except for the tourists and the poor souls caught in the event horizon of that hellhole. Anyone else swerved out of their way through downtown, up the I-5 where Lone Star had a chance to reach them. The transports were programmed for fuel and risk efficiency, in a complex cost calculation matrix, that ignored such volatile things as bad reputations. Or open gang wars. Sam was far past the concrete butterfly wings of the highway interchange when he noticed how alone he was on the road, trapped by concrete walls that once had served as noise abatement. Now they served mostly as a chipped gallery for a changing fresco of graffiti.

One panel of the wall exploded ahead of him, showering the highway with shrapnel, and smoke. Sam slowed out of reflex, the brake lever fighting against his death grip as the factory built-in anti-lock braking system took over to save him from his own reflexes. He coughed as the cement dust latched to his airways, coating the inside of his mouth in a gritty film. Through watery eyes he saw two dwarves clamber over the broken wall, carrying assault rifles almost as tall as them and very black against the red of their coats. Over the sustained ringing in his ears, he could make out the growling approach of bikes, their outlines hazy ahead of him. He didn’t doubt there’d be more behind. 

He didn’t have anything worth stealing, not on him. He had the Blitzen, all smooth carbon fibre and roaring power, beneath him. And kidneys, if it came to that. He tried to remember if the Red Hot Nukes dabbled in organ legging, but his mind was blank with mild panic. There were too many of them to fight, too few nuyens in his pocket to buy his way out. He was alone. 

“The only way out is through,” he muttered to himself. It was a poor pep-talk but it would have to do. 

Sam kicked into first gear, opening the throttle as far as he dared and leaning down low as the bike surged forward. The motor howled and keened loudly underneath him as the wheels properly grabbed onto the road. Rifle fire echoed behind him, fading fast as he gained speed. None of the bullets even grazed him, there would be too much risk to damage the most valuable thing he had to steal. 

He leaned with the bike as he turned, slalom dancing through the gangers that had come to pick him clean. For a second he worried about his knees hitting the road in a smear of tissues and bone fragment. The moment passed as fast as it had come and he was righting himself, the bike finding its balance easily despite the bulk of it. A smile tugged at his lips, pulled into a grimace by the sharp bite of the wind. He shifted to a higher gear and laughter bubbled out of him as the growling mechanism obeyed and stabilised. Sam risked a glance over his right shoulder, crossing several lanes as he did. He would have been worried if not for the ambush-born emptiness of the highway. The gangers had regrouped behind him and were gaining on him. He caught the red glint of a laser pointer and the faint outline of a smartlink acquiring its target. He couldn’t outrun them, not on their turf.

He leaned left, dancing over the asphalt to make himself a harder target. He wasn’t sure how fast they were catching up, the speed and the air pressure were deafening. Red flashed in the corner of his eye and answered the question for him. The dwarf was holding an uzi aimed straight at Sam. He turned to face the barrel with hesitation that might have lead the ganger to believe Sam was of the sensible kind: the kind that would stop and be intimidated into surrender. Sam used that and reached, hard, pushing against the weak defence of the dwarf’s comlink and through it to the auto-nav system that idled in the background. He turned off the ignition.

Adrenaline distorted time perception, which in itself was an issue. The next second stretched forever as the dwarf’s expression went from confident to panicked while the wheels of his bike locked and stopped moving. The dwarf was sent hurling ahead as momentum took hold of him. The loud metal on metal sounds of a bike crashing pierced through the wind deafness, or maybe Sam’s mind painted it as he sped away without looking back. If he looked back he’d have regrets for his actions and he didn’t have time for that, not yet. 

By the time the 405 merged unto the safer and cleaner I-5, Sam was shaking. He was shaking from the cold that ripped through the layers of inappropriate clothing he’d worn when leaving Bobby’s. His hands were cramped around the handlebars and the skin of his torso and legs felt flayed, burning and frozen in turn. The auto-nav had thankfully kicked into action as he’d crossed over into Snowmish. The bike didn’t have great sensors but it merged into controlled traffic, and Sam was thankful for it, eyes squinted almost closed and watering. He felt the gradual decrease of speed as he exited the highway and turned into the more sedate roads of Everett. It was hard to believe he was still in the Sprawl at all. Everett was as close a granary as Seattle ever got, with agricultural fields and livestock operations fighting the encroaching urbanization. It couldn’t provide enough fresh food for everyone, and the harvest was less with every acre that surrendered to new construction. When he was a kid, Sam had loved looking at the bales of hay in the fields, wrapped in white material like marshmallows dropped by a friendly giant.

The bike stopped, the happy electronic beep of the auto-nav loud in Sam’s brain as it jingled and threw the bike into park. There were hands on him, easing his fingers open, pulling at his shoulder. He was sure there was an attempt at talking as well, but it was muffled and watery at best. He followed the prompting to dismount. Either he had made it to his destination or he hadn’t, but the exhaustion and the adrenaline crash couldn’t be fought either way. Sam took two steps on the unstable gravel and collapsed to the ground into blissful unconsciousness.

He was warm. Warm and covered with a blanket that smelled of animal musk and dust. His feet were hanging off a bed, too narrow and too short to be his own. Sam groaned and realized as his feet hit the ground that his boots had been removed. His socks were also gone. The rest of his clothes were intact, though stiff with dried sweat. The room was quaint in a picturesque farmhouse way, with murals of painted moons. “_Guess I made it_,” said Sam to the silence that was Dean’s channel on the comlink. There were noises downstairs so he headed towards the kitchen.

“Good morning sleepy head! If you’d called ahead, we could have put you up in a real bed instead of one of the kids’.” Garth’s voice was usually high pitched and bubbly, but Sam winced and shook his head. He barely managed to catch the incoming hug from the smaller man. Everything sounded muffled and watery as if he was listening through a murky fishbowl. 

“Yeah, sorry about that. Didn’t think that far ahead,” Sam said. Or at least he thought that’s what he said, as the words came out of him in glumps of nonsensical sounds. 

Garth laughed and pulled out of the too-long hug. He reached for a comlink so old it was practically an antiquity. “_No helmet. You screwed your hearing up._” The electronic rendition of his voice was crisp and clear as it bypassed the entire inefficient ear assembly. 

“_Looks that way._” 

“_Doesn’t look like you did any permanent damage, should be right as rain in a couple of hours if you avoid loud noises._” Garth smiled and shook his shoulders, like a dog shaking off rain if the dog was a hundred pounds soaking wet and shaped like a skinny human. 

“_Thanks for the assessment. Listen, I actually wanted to ask you a couple of questions_.” 

“_Can it wait, Sam?_” Bess asked as she pulled Sam in a one-armed side hug. Her other arm was holding up a basket against her hip. _“I want to get some food into you first, you’re too pale by far._” 

“_There’s no point in my arguing, is there?_” Sam asked Garth, who answered with a shrug and miming zipping his mouth shut. 

Bess patted his back as she stepped into the kitchen proper. “_You always were a smart boy. Why don’t you go wash up while I cook? Leave your clothes, we’ll wash them._” 

“_Yes, ma’am._” 

The water was lukewarm at best, and it drizzled weakly out of the showerhead, the pressure fed only by gravity, and that of a mild elevation at best. The rainwater smelled weird, devoid of the chlorine and lead Sam was used to. But it sluiced off the ash and dust from his hair, the sweat from his skin. He’d hoped it would do something against the nagging worry, but that was left behind. 

Garth had mentioned leaving him something to wear hanging outside of the ratty privacy curtain. Sam had hoped for a pair of lounge pants, maybe some jeans from some other member of the werewolf pack. He hadn’t even considered the option of the satin robe — printed with sakura blossoms in soft pinks over the slightly iridescent white material. It was Bess’ and it probably covered all of her, from the hood over her hair to her ankles. On Sam, the fabric strained and stretched, leaving most of his legs bare. It wouldn’t take more than a moderately unenthusiastic breeze to expose parts of himself he wasn’t quite comfortable with displaying. 

Bess was taking a tray out of the oven when he walked in. She was talking to Garth but Sam couldn’t make out the words. Not that he was trying very hard, he was distracted by the enticing smell of whatever she was making. 

“_Have a seat_,” said Garth. “_Food’s just about ready_. _Bess wants to know if we’re expecting your brother?_”

Sam winced. He was grateful Garth was avoiding his name on the comlink but the question hurt. “_No. Just me._” 

“Don’t sound so defeated,” said Bess. “We like you for yourself, not as a consolation prize.” She was speaking slower and louder, enunciating almost to a comical level. It helped. The words not as much as the effort, but Sam appreciated both. 

“Thanks,” he answered. He sat at the table, pulling at the hem of the robe and thankful that the furniture was at least able to shield parts of him.

“You’re very welcome,” Bess answered as she placed a plate in front of him. “Eat now.” 

The plate held a glistening mass of soft cooked grains that smelled of real bacon and herbs. She’d scooped out a large helping of roasted rainbow carrots — charred from the oven and coated in a sweet and sour mix of honey, vinegar, and herbs — and some white-fleshed vegetable Sam didn’t recognize. It was probably more nutrition than he’d seen all month, especially considering the glaring absence of anything close to a soy block. Sam closed his eyes as he ate, as much to savour the actual honest to god bits of bacon that had been thrown into the barley, as to avoid looking at the raw red strips of meat on Garth’s and Bess’ own plates. He knew it was sheep’s heart, not human, but it didn’t make it any easier to watch them eat. 

“_The pups won’t be home for several hours_,” said Bess. “_I’ll leave the two of you alone to Talk_.” She squeezed Sam’s arm as she passed. “_It’s good to see you. You should come and see us more often_.” There was gentle teasing in her tone, mixed with fondness and an undercurrent of stress. 

“_I’ll try,_” he answered. It was a lie. The farm wasn’t particularly hidden, or secret. But it was still a bad idea to track heat to the door of a werewolf pack. They weren’t protected under the law as metahumans and there were plenty of people with no qualms about claiming the bounties per head. Sam and Dean among the number, in the right circumstances. Sam opened his eyes so that the memory of Madison’s tears would vanish as he pushed his fork on the plate, hunting the last pale grains of barley. 

“_There’s more if you’re still hungry._”

“_No, I’m good. Just thinking_.” 

“_You know, if you just need to talk, I can listen. I am a great listener_.” Garth smiled, wide and without any discernible guile. Sam wondered, not for the first time, how he’d made it for so long in the shadows before retiring. 

“_I’m fine_.” Sam closed his comlink, watching the connection flicker and die with instant regret. He didn’t want to risk being overheard, not when Garth’s side of the conversation was through an antiquated com that couldn’t be properly secured. He pushed away his plate and rolled his shoulders as much as he could under the robe. “I came here to talk to you, actually. I have a favour to ask.” 

“Oooh? You know the answer’s yes in advance. It’s an honour to be asked to help the Winchesters.”

“I’m looking for something,” Sam told him about the drive, describing it as best he could and wishing he had brought the hard copy images. “I got intel that your crew sold it to Art, but I need to know more.” 

Garth answered with a low whistle, fingers drumming on the table. “You know, you’re not the first to ask. You’re the first to ask _nicely_, but we’ve had a lot of heat because of that.” He caught what was probably a distraught look on Sam’s face. “No direct threats, you didn’t put my kids in danger, don’t beat yourself up. Actually, the stunt you pulled in Renton probably helped. Ain’t no one who wants a repeat of that.”

“That’s one good thing that came out of it.”

“Don’t sell yourself short.” Garth picked up the empty plate and brought it to the sink. He said something Sam didn’t catch through the fishbowl of his earing “... that’s why I don’t mind telling you.” Garth sat back at the table and squeezed Sam’s hand, before thinking better of it and letting go. “We found a bunch of those things, actually. Not that we were looking for them, you know us, we’re never looking for anything in particular.”

“You harvest what’s there.”

“Exactly! So when we heard about this building slated for destruction out in Bellevue we went ahead to check it out. Turns out it was some sort of Matrix R&D lab. Clean rooms, the sort of thing” 

“Demolition? There goes that lead I guess.”

“On no, no, that’s the _weird_ part. The demolition order got pulled. Apparently the place used to belong to Fuchi, in an off the books kind of way, and now the lawyers from Renraku and Shiawase are debating who gets to own that particular bone. They’ve set up massive security around it, but like, some from each of their sides. Looks pretty tense.”

Sam groaned and let his face fall into his hands. There was no way he was getting in, not through two layers of corp security. At least it explained how Renraku was involved, if not why they were sending out their special forces. When he looked through his fingers, Garth was still smiling, even wider. He looked like a kid waiting to give someone a gift scraped together with glitter glue and strings.

“We’ve camera footage if you want it? There’s something I want you to see.” He walked out of the kitchen and Sam followed, mourning the loss of the convenient table.

Garth turned on a few old-school monitors and pulled up videos from security feeds in a grid pattern. He played what was obviously a loop a few times before turning to Sam. “Do you see it?”

Sam leaned forward, all modesty forgotten and made the images scroll frame by frame. “Yeah, I see it.”

A man had walked into the building, leaving behind several incapacitated guards. He was tall with short light brown hair, dressed too casually for the wanton violence. The bright pink child’s backpack he carried drew attention while the long wool coat he had on would have blended seamlessly in richer circles than Sam could afford to breathe in. More importantly, between one frame and the next, he vanished. Stitched out of the image. 

“Someone’s ghosting him,” said Sam. “_Who_ is that?”

“I haven’t the faintest idea,” answered Garth with glee. “But I can put an APB on him.”


	5. Chasing Rabbits

Sam thumped the roof of the pickup to signal he was clear of the wheels as he hooked on his mask out of habit more than conscious thought. The driver gave him half a salute through the plastic sheet that acted as a back windshield. Sam hadn't gotten his name or any conversation, but it was probably for the best. Garth had negotiated his ride back to Puyallup, both to preserve the bike from damage and to help him keep a low profile, but not every member of his pack was as friendly as he was or as understanding of the tasks Runners sometimes had to undertake.

A glance told him he was north and east, barely out of Auburn, not a great drop off point, but not a bad one either. He could make it back to Bobby's from here. His lungs would scream and his limbs would be on fire, but he could make it there fast. Sam's finger ran over his comlink, turning it back on. An ARO or two flickered to light around him in garish neon colours and confused half loaded code. The voice channel stayed silent, joined by the absence of message notification. Sam realized he didn't want to go to Bobby's, not yet. He didn't want to see the soft edge to his eyes, hear the pain in his voice as he'd take off his hat to give him the news straight to his face. Any news that couldn't be said over coms was sure to be bad. As long as Sam didn't hear it, it wouldn't be real.

There was something else he could do, had to be something else he could do, work the case, make some headway and stay busy. The drive had been looted from a black books Fuchi project. There might be details about it in the shipwreck of those hosts, decayed and flayed as they were. Sam pulled up his contact list but stopped mid-motion. Across the street, sitting on the curb with its fur slicked back by the acidic rain, was a perfect white rabbit. It looked at Sam, pink nose twitching as it seemed to scent the air in his direction.

Sam rubbed his eyes, pinching at the inner corners. The street was empty and so was the vacant lot it bordered. The midday light filtered through the clouds and highlighted everything in short stark shadows. If Alice was here, she was better at hiding than most adepts. The rabbit was still there when he opened his eyes and, for a moment, Sam wondered if it might be a real one made of flesh and bones. He took a small careful step forward, trying to make himself look gentle and friendly to avoid spooking it.

He made it about an arms reach away when the thing jumped up, ears straight as antennas. It turned and ran down the street in a series of hurried hops. When Sam didn't follow right away it made a small distressed sound, twisting in mid-air to face him accusingly before resuming its run. Sam shrugged and followed. He didn’t speak “woodland creature” but he could tell raw fear when he saw it. 

They headed west, running along boulevards and once or twice through a tangle of alleys. Sam was glad he was in good physical shape, climbing over dumpsters and using rust-bitten balconies to help make his path. The rabbit had no such issues, jumping in graceful arcs exactly where it needed to go. The invisible border of Puyallup City erupted around Sam in a rainbow of ARO, business advertisement and sports events climbing up the buildings in a jumble of nerve soothing electronic hums. Sam didn’t pay attention to them, letting the colours and jingles glide on him, dragging him forward in a hypnotic display. 

It made keeping sight of his white rabbit harder, and the reference would have made him smile if he hadn’t seen _it_ in that moment. In the denser environment, such as it was, it was easier to spot. It looked like the illusions on the open road when Dean and him still drove for days. The shimmer in the air built from heat waves that rippled like water. It passed _through_ the ARO and the Matrix objects dimmed in its wake, leached of colour and brightness like discarded toys in abandoned homes. 

He felt it move against the edge of his mind and knew, intimately, how small and insignificant he was in this world. It was like swimming in clear water and then having the shadow of Leviathan stir beneath you, older and vaster than the mind could comprehend. He grasped at parts, snapshots of a construct of impossible scale. It was alien, powerful, utterly indifferent to Sam as anything other than an obstacle to be swept aside. He wondered if this is what it felt like, to be in the presence of one's god — if this is what Cas felt every time he summoned the shadow wings of his Totem.

Adrenaline flooded through him, narrowing his vision and sending blood to already tired muscles, trying to get more speed, more space, more time. He knew now why Alice’s _something _had been running for its life. It wasn’t enough, not nearly enough. The extra effort only served to draw attention to himself and the sudden focus felt like someone was shining a spotlight through his soul. 

Tendrils wrapped around him, carrying a vague annoyance before all analytical thought was chased from Sam’s mind. It was lightning, or what he’d read of lightning strikes. It seized through his spine and up his nerves, down to every single part of himself. Sam tried to scream, but his lungs held no air and his throat couldn’t bring itself to vibrate as the world drowned in a high pitched shade of white. 

It didn’t fade the way pain normally faded once the nerves got overloaded. It grew and stretched inside of Sam, growing outward in ever-larger circles, wider than his body had any right to be. In the Matrix, he would have had his persona to wrap around himself, but that had been stripped from him as well. He tried to concentrate, to find an anchor to cling too, but the whiteness screeched against the burst membranes of his ears, the sound coming from inside him, somewhere that had once been kidneys when they had not covered city blocks. Nothing bent to his will. With each attempt, it became harder to think of what he was reaching for, of the form of it. Of the form of himself.

There was no time in the white space, and, after what could have been a second or a lifetime, Sam let that concept go as well, content to float in emptiness and let it carry him. Even the pain was leaching out to a sustained, soft buzz. It was around him and inside him, as part of him as he was part of it. He could feel it move in slow pulses like a boundless ocean pulled by strange tides. Everything was interlinked and intimately bound by electrons and data packets and cryptic handshakes, and if he’d just let go a bit further — if he could forget his name — he would be able to see it all. 

Sam snapped back to his body like a rubber band returning to its proper size: all the worse for wear. He could feel the cells dividing and dying along his skin, the slimy push and pull of his digestive tract and the haywire sparks in each individual nerve as they lurched him forward in a shambling mess. Blinking felt like dragging sandpaper over his eyes, his vision limited and inadequate as the muscles failed to focus.

“Well, well, look what the cat dragged in.” 

He knew that voice, though it sounded strange and distorted through the webs of data that hung around her. Crawlers everywhere, spinning data nets and getting their claws on every piece of private information that flew through this place, with all points leading to a room upstairs, behind the flickering neon’s that spelled “Red’s” outside of the building. 

He focused on his mouth, on the soft and hard mess of it as his tongue moved, making the salivary glands ooze like slow motion geyser. It cost him control of his hands and a tremor took over as muscles contracted and loosened at the same time, with too many tendons and joints for him to keep straight. He closed his eyes so he wouldn't have to see the mangled remains that would be left behind when his fingers dislocated and tangled.

“Help. Me.”

“You only ever had to ask,” she answered. 

Sam sagged with relief and let himself be guided inside. Ruby was small, so much smaller than he was, but she didn’t flinch at the weight of him, almost draped across her shoulders. 

He knew she was augmented. She’d never been shy about the long-chained monomer lattice that enhanced her muscles, the woven ballistic armour grafted under her skin. Or, for that matter, the datajacks she had implanted like so many stars in constellations. A whole row dotted her spine, two nestled under each clavicle, with more in the hollows of her hips. They sparkled, decorated with jewel finished datachips. Sam let his fingers strum the ones down her back: pharmacology, classical books, krav maga, chemistry… She would swap them in and out, collating experience and knowledge into nothing more than a fashion choice. Ruby could know how to pilot a military vehicle if she wanted to, with the same investment as being admitted as a practicing surgeon. Meaning none at all. 

The armchair creaked as she dropped him. The stuffing had been gone for years but the fabric was soft and the brocade pattern gave it an air of luxury. Sam loved this chair and he was surprised Ruby remembered. One of the crawlers sped up and away into the ceiling and the surprise faded into bittersweet resignation. Of course. It had been filed away like any piece of leverage. 

His skin itched, dried dead cells and mites combined into an all-over assault. He traced the paths of the black widow sprites, trying to concentrate on their data trails as he scratched, fingernails digging until they become coated in sticky liquid and the itch retreated. It would be easy to break into Ruby’s coffers and see what else she had with his name on it. He wondered if he’d have more regret for reading it or leaving it alone. 

“Whoa, what’s that all about?” Ruby pulled his hands away with some effort, interlacing her fingers with his. It was too intimate and not enough and Sam didn’t know if he wanted more contact or less, only that the itching was back. She took the choice away from him, putting his hands on his thighs then straddling him so they would be pinned by her own legs. “Here. Bottoms up.” 

Sam opened his mouth on command as she pressed the glass to his lips. Apple flavoured liquid was poured into his mouth and he swallowed as best he could. The aspartame couldn’t quite cover the acrid powdery residue of the pills she had crushed into the glass. He ran his tongue over his teeth, trying and failing to figure out what the crystals were as much as he was trying to overcome the aluminum and death aftertaste. “What was in there?”

“I don’t know what you took Sam, but I can tell when someone needs to come down and needs to come down hard.” She put the glass down beside the chair and Sam wished she’d refill it instead. He was thirsty as if the few gulps had reminded his body that fluid intake was a requirement. “So that was some alprazolam to taper you back to earth. And then something extra to keep you here afterwards.”

“Thank you.” He let his head lean back against the chair and closed his eyes, focusing on his breathing so he could ignore the way each individual hair was sticking into the fabric’s weave. Ruby was still on top of him, the weight of her a physical anchor and not unpleasant. She smelled of skin musk, lust, and comfort. It was as fake as the rest of her augmentations, a bespoke cocktail of tailored pheromones. He knew he was being manipulated, but really, she wasn’t making him do anything he didn’t want to do, never had. 

He flexed his fingers under her legs, more of a twitch than a pull, and leaned his head forward with his eyes still closed. Ruby had always been good at reading him like a book and she met him halfway, catching his mouth in a kiss. He parted his lips with a happy sigh, licking into the mint taste of her and drowning out the last of the fake sugar. She shifted, and he pulled his right hand free to tangle it in the soft mess of her hair. He wrapped it around his palm and pulled in the way that made her gaps a little against him.

“Hey baby,” she said against his skin. 

“Hey,” he answered. They didn’t speak much after that, trading slow, wet kisses until the drugs kicked in and Sam slumped in the chair. There was a tingle at the back of his neck and then warmth, like being cocooned with a warm blanket that muted the world to a more tolerable level. He felt the coiled dynamos in his brain slow along with his heart rhythm and moaned with the relief of it all. 

Ruby chuckled. “I’ll take it that’s better.”

“Oh yeah. So good.” He blinked his eyes open and was happy to see he could focus on reality again. “I owe you for this.”

“Damn right you do. Think you’ll behave on the self-harm thing if I get off now?”

“I’ll be good…” he hesitated. “Could I have more water?” 

“Always making demands.” She ran her hands down his chest, making him arch up into the touch, before dismounting entirely. “I’ll see what I can whip up for you.” 

Sam hummed at the empty space. A part of his mind whispered that absences of any kind were a problem at this time but the drugs made it easy to ignore it until the voice eventually went away. On the next exhale he was able to take in some of his surroundings. Red’s was a lounge — would have been a gentleman’s club a few decades ago. The name amused Ruby: most people expected a dive bar held by a middle-aged man or the owner to be a redhead the first time they walked in. They did not expect the padded booths and the privacy screens in dark wood-imitation. The regulars knew better than to let their eyes stray or try to eavesdrop on the others in the space. Most of the time they were too consumed by their own powdered paradise to bother. The combination lent the place a solemn quietness, like the libraries Sam had haunted as a kid. 

It took a while for Ruby to come back, long enough that the initial hit was fading around Sam. For a horrible moment, he feared he’d fall back into whatever manic state had overcome him before. He wasn’t ready to examine what had triggered it, shying away from the bright blankness that still lurked in his mind. He distracted himself by counting the aches in his muscles and the burst blisters on both his feet. 

“It’s not much,” she said as she put down an earthenware plate in front of him. It was round and painted a rusty shade of red. “But I figured you could use something to eat as well as the water.” 

Sam looked at the glistening olives in the bowl, in shades of green and black and covered with a dusting of herbs. His fingers shook as he took one, feeling the slickness of the oil between his fingers. “Not sure I can afford the fancy snacks.”

“I’ll put it on your tab, Sam.” Ruby settled across from him, popping one of the olives in her own mouth and smirking as she licked the brine from her fingers. “I gotta say I was surprised to see you. I thought your pretty-boy of a brother had marked me off-limits.”

Sam scoffed and shook his head. He reached for the water and took careful sips, trying to remind himself that chugging it down would only make him sick. “I can make my own choices. And I needed you.”

“Obviously. So, what was that all about?”

“I don’t know.”

“Don’t know or won’t say?”

“Don’t know. Really. Not keeping things from you right now. Not sure I could or want to.” 

“Oh really? So, what have you been up to, Sam?”

He told her. The words pouring out of him in bursts and waves, fueled by the slight euphoria as the pain faded around him and the sheer relief of having someone to speak to. He told her about the bad business cycle, the stretched food. The seemingly impossible task he’d been given and how he’d been chasing his tail around town trying to provide for his family. 

“So, what’s the payload on that drive?” asked Ruby when he was done. 

“I have no idea. Why does it matter?”

She sighed and stretched to punch him lightly on the shoulder. “Because, if the harvesters picked up several of them, why is everyone after the same unit. It ain’t the tech they want, they could reverse engineer that out of any sample. But they haven’t.”

“Or maybe they have, but they’re missing something important.” He ground the heels of his hands into his eyes, distracted for a moment by the starburst pattern. “Which means I should be looking further back for records, it wasn’t built in a vacuum.”

“Would surprise me. Fuchi slept on a lot of things, as they bumbled their way to failure, but Corps do like their redundancies.” She looked up and her voice dropped from flirty to ice cold. “Guess it’s time for me to turn into a pumpkin now.”

“What?” 

Sam opened his eyes and forgot how to talk for a moment, confronted by the very particular green of Dean’s eyes. It couldn’t be real — Dean was dead, or he would have sounded off before now — so he closed his eyes again, pinching the webbing along his left thumb. It felt like a vague sense of warm pressure under the block of the painkillers. 

When he opened his eyes the hallucination was still there, kneeling in front of him with an expression that was partly scowl, partly annoyed fondness. Sam tried to remember if you could touch visual hallucinations and reached out with one finger to poke the air in front of him. And touched skin. With a choked sob he launched his way forward, wrapping Dean with as many limbs as he could and holding him tight enough he was probably bruising some ribs. 

“Time to come home,” said Dean softly, in a tone that he would use when they were both kids and trying to establish his authority.

Sam had rarely been happier to be grounded. 


	6. Fugue

“You don’t mean you can’t, you mean you _won’t_. So why not use those words in the first place?”

Dean was loud when he demanded and quiet when he begged. Sam wished, not for the first time, that they lead lives where he wouldn't have known that about his brother.

He groaned and rolled over to bury into his pillow. He couldn’t remember much between Red’s and collapsing on his lumpy bed at Bobby’s. A hand reached out and grabbed at his com, numb fingers poking until it displayed the time. Ten AM on most days would have been decadently late, and Sam wanted to roll over and sleep again for a few hours or a lifetime. There wouldn’t be a chance of that, not with the way Dean was shout-talking. 

“As you wish,” Cas answered in his controlled professional tone. “I _won’t _do it, not until I have clear and informed consent. At this point, I am doing more harm than good and I would very much like to be able to look my oath in the eye, sometime this year.” 

Knees. Ankles. Cold floor under socked feet. Sam propelled himself out of bed, reaching for the door frame. Dried, stale, sweat wafted about him as uncertain fingers reached to shove hair behind an ear. A shower was definitely getting prioritized. 

“Oath? What oath? You’ve never needed a useless certificate hanging on your wall to do what you do.”

“Still. Using magic to essentially run Sam through cold-turkey withdrawal as I have been is not a long term solution. It places tremendous stress on his metabolism and it most certainly doesn’t touch the core of the behaviour. He—”

“Can hear you just fine,” Sam interrupted, shoulders leaning against the doorframe. “And can also take care of himself. Thank you for acknowledging that, Cas.” 

Both Cas and Dean were inside the latter’s room, though neither of them looked like they had slept in the last two days. Cas was sitting on the edge of the bed and Dean had obviously been pacing.

“Take care of yourself? Is that what we’re calling it? I let you out of my sight for a second and you run straight back to _her_ and enough ketamine to knockout a troll.” 

“It was a bit more than a second Dean! And I needed it.” 

“Yeah. Right.”

Sam ignored him, turning to Cas. “Thank you, for bothering to ask this time.”

“Of course.” Cas tilted his head as he squinted up at him. It was an obvious tell for when he was taking a magical look at things but Sam didn’t have the heart to tell him, Dean thought it was cute. “Did you _want_ me to flush out of the drugs, Sam?” 

Something twisted in the lower intestinal tract area, sending a sharp spike of pain that dulled and vanished like a strobe light. Shifting the spine made him stand straighter and release the pressure on the cramping area. “Not particularly, no.”

Dean snorted from where he was now leaning against the far wall of his room, arms crossed. Sam avoided looking into his eyes, didn’t want to read what emotions would be on display there. They wouldn’t be kind. 

“I’m fine, De. Can you just trust that I can know when I'm good?”

“Fine? What part of this is fine?” He gestured to widely encompass all of the space Sam occupied. “Running right back to the very mess we’ve just pulled you from?”

“That’s not what happened. You might not believe it, but I actually know what I’m doing, Dean.”

“Like you knew what you were doing when you drained all of our accounts and took-off to Little-Chiba to let some dubious doc mess with your head, leaving about a hair from brain death?” 

“Oh that’s rich,” said Sam as he rolled his eyes, “coming from you.”

Dean startled, uncrossing his arms and stepping closer to Sam in an attempt to loom and intimidate. “What do you mean by that?” 

“Earring implants?” Sam smirked when Dean flinched. Jackpot. “Those are new. What else didn’t you tell me you got?” A shift in tendons allowed for a head tilt towards Castiel, trying to entice him to back-up the argument. “Cas won’t tattle because he has some professional ethics, but you can’t give me hell for augmentations when you’ve been keeping yours from me.” 

“He has a point,” said Cas, turning his attention to Dean. 

“Whatever. Makes me wonder why I bother. I clean up your messes and pick you up from parties. When are you going to fucking grow up, Sam?”

Breath rattled through sticky musty teeth as the word landed. They hurt like a punch to the kidneys. The disappointment radiating from Dean hurt more. 

"I've got work to do."

A shower and clean clothes helped, though Sam’s skin itched as it dried and his stomach was still tied in knots. He missed the dissociation a bit. Not enough to be jonesing for a hit, but the thought was there. There was something soothing about being made aware that one was a ghost piloting a meatsuit stretched over a frame built of stardust. It helped with perspective, with making things less dramatic, or at least less immediate and visceral. 

There was no way to avoid Dean without it being dramatic, by definition.

Announcing that he was headed out had been met with more muttering and death glares, until Bobby had put his foot down. Sam hadn’t wanted to be trapped in a car with Dean, not at that moment, even as secretly happy as he was to see him as he loomed. And Dean had refused to let him walk that far as if Sam would collapse or get jumped and left in a ditch. There was, admittedly, an edge of truth in the latter scenario. Sam wasn’t at his best and it showed in the listlessness of his movements. 

Which is how he’d ended up in a tuk-tuk, shoulders curved inward and still rubbing against the pieced-together plastic cab being pulled by a scooter that struggled against the weight of him. It was wasted luxury and he wasn’t an infirm, but he had to admit it was nice to be out of the rain. The grey-tinged water sluiced off the plexiglass windows around Sam. He hoped the driver’s clothes were waterproof; they would be miserable, bent over the motor of the bike and steering them almost blind. The passenger cabin had an awning designed to protect from the sun and it seemed to only channel the water into a constant drip down the driver’s back. Sam wondered if the rig had sensors, then decided it didn’t matter. He kept his pistol on his lap, security off, just in case someone tried to intercept them. 

No one did. 

The blocks blurred into the monochrome stain of the slums as they edged deeper south and west. Sam startled when the tuk-tuk came to a sudden stop. He hadn’t realized he was falling asleep. The driver was saying something in a stream of words that evaded all meaning. Normally he’d have an autotranslation program running to handle it, but Sam settled for slowly getting out of the cabin. He put away his weapon, slipping it into the waistband of his jeans out of habit. Holsters were safer, saner, and certainly cleaner but they never felt quite right. The driver pointed across the street at the spray-painted line in dull yellow and the gleaming Knight Errant patrol car less than an inch behind it.

“You’re not crossing into Tarislar, I get it,” said Sam, handing over a few crumpled nuyen bills. The motion felt strange and superfluous. His comlink, silent and turned off, was a dead weight in his front pocket. 

It occurred to him, as the whine of the scooter got muffled by the slums, that he didn't know exactly how much he had given in tip. Probably not too much since he didn't remember keeping large bills on him. He hoped it had been enough.

Sam signalled the officer with a weak two fingers salute, letting his arm flop down as he walked the other corner of the block, staying safely on his side of the line. Tarislar stood out. It wasn't just the high-grade enforcers: the streets were cleaner, illuminated at regular intervals by high lumen LEDs. There was no fighting the acid etching of the rain, but the buildings here were a few stories taller, a lot straighter. More light spilled from unbroken windows; the steady electric kind fueled by proper grid access, not a hack job or a failing generator. It existed as its own world, a wall-less walled city, as exotic and foreign as another country to any who didn't belong. 

The Armadillo was a decker bar, a mafia recruitment front, a giant raised middle finger at the elven crime syndicate. Strings of bells above the door announced Sam’s entrance with bright metallic jingles. He nodded to the bartender and ignored everyone else as he stepped onto the winding staircase. It got narrower as it coiled up. Sam didn’t know what was on the second floor, had never seen that door open or the newsprint torn off the windows. It always smelled of cooking and sometimes he could hear echoes of laughter and calls in Sperethiel. He figured that asking would be more trouble than he wanted to get involved in. 

On top of the staircase was a smaller space, earning the bar designation solely because of the array of beers on a wall made available on the honour system. The room was curtained on all sides with blackout drapes and even the ceiling had been spray painted a matte black. Some of the tiles showed wear and tear where the changing wiring had rubbed against the paint, revealing the bright tin underneath, the patina highlighting the flowery embossed pattern. Bright turquoise amorphous couches were the only colour relief.

“Charlie?” Sam called, his voice loud in the empty room despite his hesitation. He should have called ahead. Maybe she’d gone out, living her life or doing whatever it was she did when she wasn’t jacked-in. It was probably a bad thing that he couldn’t think of even a shortlist of other spaces Charlie might inhabit. Sam suspected, maybe for the first time, that he might be a lousy friend. 

“Just a minute, Samshine!” came the response, muffled, from the short hallway that lead to the bathrooms and the locked “private” room. As far as Sam knew, it was Charlie’s bedroom more than an office. Charlie emerged with two ceramic cups glazed a yellow so bright they almost glowed in the room. “Here you go,” she said as she ended one of the mugs over.

“Thanks.” Sam took the mug out of reflex and winced as his hand closed around the warm ceramic. He was colder than he had realized. “Sorry for not calling ahead.” 

“It’s okay. Dean did. It’s why I made you the oatmeal.” She sat on one of the couches, plastic beads rustling until it adapted to her small frame. She poked the other one in front of her with her toes in a clear invitation.

“He did? I didn’t tell him where I was headed.” Sam sat down, careful not to drop the cup. The bean bag strained to accommodate him a lot more than it had for Charlie. He winced and hoped the delaminated vinyl would hold.

“He worries, you know? Called ahead so I could keep an eye out. Sounded more like an educated guess than anything.”

“Worries?” He shook his head. “How does he think I feel when he goes radio silent?”

Charlie put down her cup with a sigh. Sam dropped his eyes, focusing on his own cup until a bright pink spoon landed on his lap. “Eat, you dumbass,” she said. “His com got fried and the last time he looped in unsecured communication equipment you ripped him a new one. He was waiting for you to get home so you could set him back up into your little personal network.”

“Oh,” said Sam. He felt foolish. It made perfect sense and he hadn’t even asked Dean how he’d gotten out of the Crime Mall.

“So. Did you come over so I could play agony aunt, or what?” 

Sam looked up from stirring the instant oatmeal, swallowing his mouthful too fast so that he felt the scalding mass of it down his throat. “I… I need a consult.”

“Since when do you do those in person?”

He fished out the comlink from his pocket and put it on the floor between them. “I don’t know. I just couldn’t make myself turn it on when I woke up.”

“Doesn't look broken,” she said as she picked up the wristband and flipped it easily to squint at the circuits. “Short circuit maybe?”

“The com is fine. I'm the problem.”

“What do you mean? In a ‘can't get it up’ sense or?”

“I don't know.” His voice sounded weak but he couldn’t even hate himself for it. “I am an addict, but that's not why I went to Ruby. This job… whoever else is involved, they did something to me. Felt like I was drowning in the data flow. Like I was dying.”

“Sounds scary.” 

“Terrifying. I don’t think I can face that again. I don't expect you to understand.” 

He realized he had said something wrong by the silence the followed.

Charlie was staring at him with a hard edge to her eyes and with no trace of her usual smile. “Sam, I love you, but you _have got to_ get your head out of your own ass. You think you’re the only one who can manipulate the Matrix by grace alone? The only one who carries scars and who’s seen some weird fucking shit?” Her hand pressed over her thigh as she spoke, tracing the shape of something under her clothes.

“The original design wasn't a space princess over a multifaceted die, was it?”

“No. It wasn't.” She took a deep breath. She still looked angry, but it was laced with pain. “Grace fades. Hold on to what you have while you have it. I had to relearn everything from the ground up, a lifetime of work.”

“I’m sorry.” He meant it. Charlie never spoke of her childhood. Now Sam was scared to ask.

“Yeah, well make it up to me. Get back on the horse that threw you. The longer you avoid it the worst it will be.”

“What if I’m already broken?”

“Then I’ll teach you.” She tossed him the comlink. “Go on.”

Sam groaned and got up. He walked across the room and pulled at one of the blackout drapes. The natural light was blinding as it rushed through the gap like an invading force. Sam gasped and blinked through the sudden eye strain. He ran the com’s band through his fingers as he looked at the otherness of Tarislar’s main square, at the two metal and glass sculpted trees that rose as pillars in the center, as tall as the surrounding buildings and large enough that it would take several people to wrap their arms around the bases. He knew — though he couldn’t remember when and where he’d learned it — that they filtered both rainwater and air and that the interiors held vertical gardens. 

“Who made them?” he asked Charlie.

“The trees? I don’t know. They say they belong to everyone, a communal property. That the food and clean water are free for the taking.”

“Huh.” He wondered what the catch was: nothing ever came without a cost. Not in the shadows, not in the slums. You paid with your life, with your blood, or with your soul. Always. 

He turned the comlink on and watched as, hexagon by hexagon, the view was covered by a light blue, shimmering field. He’d always liked the electronic barrier more than the physical reminders. It made the area look like an unloaded zone in a retro video game. A teased promise instead of a denied reality. 

Messages and notifications flooded over his field of view in an array of colours, getting tagged and coded as the subroutines kicked in. Sam reached out and tapped the one he didn’t recognize. It was shaped like an old fashioned calling card with the impressions of petals on it. It held a string of numbers and “Alice” as a signature. Sam launched a mapping program as he turned to Charlie. The Matrix coordinate were Seattle-based but otherwise unfamiliar.

“Looks like I have no choice,” he said softly. “I guess I never really did.”

“There’s always a choice. It’s a matter of choosing what consequences you can live with.” She crossed the room and took his hand, pulling him away from the window and pushing him gently back unto the bean bags. “Come on Moose. Tell me where we’re going. I’ve got your back.” 


	7. Stream

Abandoned corporate hosts all felt strangely uniform: self-contained bubbles of absence, in dusty greys. Dust kicked up as Sam and Charlie entered the area, even though neither of their avatars left footprints. It was coarse and gritty, like it was ground from millions of tiny barbed hooks. Darkness swam around the edge of Sam’s vision until he realized he was holding his breath. He made himself stop and take in air, chanting to himself that the silicate moondust wasn’t actually able to shred his physical lungs. That his body was safely sprawled in the Armadillo. 

Entering the host had been a matter of following the coordinates and pushing the door. Long-inactive security systems rustled around them like cobwebs and desiccated insect shells. Their intent still echoed as they were brushed aside: intruders were hated and unwelcomed. Diving into the dead spaces of the Matrix was about as fun as exploring abandoned haunted houses, minus the promise of fire and rescue coming to help if it all collapsed into ruins.

“So, what’s your Mrs. Jay doing in a place like this?” asked Charlie. The dust clung to her ankle for a moment and formed obscene crumbling tentacles as she rose higher, trying to get a better look at their surroundings. It was impossible to tell what the scaffoldings and cat-walks had once been but she blended into it like a moonlight shadow into a cloudy night.

“Don’t call her that.” Sam chided, turning to look around himself. “It sounds weird.” 

“Agreed! But you and Squirrel insist on calling your contacts ‘Mr. J.’ and it grates a bit.” Charlie’s voice came from nowhere and everywhere, echoing off invisible walls in the space. “I can’t really call someone Mr. Alice unless that’s their name, you know.”

Sam groaned. “I shouldn’t have given you a name.”

“Probably not.” Charlie laughed. “Too late now.”

“If you were anyone else that would be sinister,” Sam mumbled. He was talking to himself at this point but he had no doubt she could hear him. Charlie was scary in the Matrix, scarier than he was sometimes. Most of the time. A flare of colour twinkled on the edge of his vision and he tilted his head with curiosity. “What have we here?”

Three roses stood from the dirt. They were trimmed and cut like something out of a flower shop in the parts of Downtown Sam got to cross but never linger in. Each perfectly formed and defined, but the colour was off. He could tell the flowers had been perfectly white, once, but now were dripping a red viscous liquid that glistened in the dead light. A paper card was leaning against them, an invitation or a calling card, maybe. When Sam picked it up the face showed numbers, counting down rapidly to zero. 

“What the—” 

“_Sam!_” Charlie screamed at the same time. 

Light rose around him, hard and fast. Sam had only a fraction of a second to think and that thought sounded a lot like “not again” before his vision blanked out. After a second that stretched into eternities between heartbeats, he realized that it wasn’t the same as the empty white light that had overtaken him before. He was standing at the center of a satellite upload, data coiling around him as it raced to reach its destination. Alice had called him there for this, though he didn’t know why. It would be rude to let this chance pass. Sam dipped into the stream as it rose, wings flaring as it buoyed him up and away. Pain bloomed in his right shoulder but that too faded and became abstract.

When he opened his eyes, he was standing elsewhere, or at least he wasn’t in the remains of the Fuchi host. The room around him was worn by age and neglect, data corruption showing as ashes and hungry, crawling, black mold. Rows of silver disks gleamed in front of him, with handwritten labels in an unfamiliar shorthand. Sam flicked one and it spun with a high pitch sound, like a steel spring being wound up.

_“Yes. I can see you.”_ Sam turned around to face the source of the voice. _“It feels a bit strange, but I could get used to it. Disconcerting, not disturbing, if that makes sense? How does it feel to you?”_

She was flickering in and out like a ghost. It was a recording of a recording in low resolution that screamed of a past era's bleeding edge. The woman was looking at her own hands, flexing her fingers as if they were the most wonderful thing she'd ever seen. Gold and silver glinted on the layered braid of her hair, large cornrows against her scalp that gathered into a half ponytail, high on her head. Her eyes were a deep brown and swirled with wonder.

_“Of course,”_ she answered, to some prompt Sam couldn't hear. _“We knew iteration would be an issue.”_ She paused. _“I wonder if it will hurt? We should find a way to get some data on that part as well.”_ The recording stuttered and stopped as the woman wrapped her arms around herself.

“We should have gone through with it. We were weak.” The voice made Sam jump. It was the same voice, maybe older, but it did not come from the frozen, static, hologram. He couldn’t sense if another decker was riding with him; all of his scans bounced on emptiness. And yet, someone had spoken. Sam surged forward, finding an open doorway that hadn't been present before. There was movement, a sense of someone running away with heavy threaded boots and long, braided hair whipping through space and then nothing. Behind him, the spin of the disk stopped as it crumbled into ashen sparks.

Sam swore. The data fragments were too fragile and too numerous. He might have been able to make backups without destroying them and even then he doubted the copies would work at all. He certainly couldn't do that level of delicate manipulations and also catch whoever else was here before the end of the upstream. Time in the Matrix was relative but even relativity had its limits. 

He made his choice and crossed the threshold, out of the records room. 

It was bright outside and hot. The unblinking noon heat poured like a torrent over stone streets and stone buildings, over narrow staircases and archways filled with strangely flat shadows. Morocco, Sam's mind supplied. The medina of Chefchaouen. But where there should have been cheerful painted blues was angry sprayed graffiti in splotches of hurried decay. “**This breaks the world,**” crawled up a staircase and around a corner, in the same hand as the labels on the disks. Sam climbed after it, taking the steps two at the time as the narrow space cramped his wings.

Where he touched the walls, with a hand, a seeking tendril of smoke, the bony spur of a talon, they flaked off and left behind nothing. Not a gap or a hole but an absence, a void that was neither black nor grey but made the eyes water. Sam looked away. 

He didn't see the many eyes of the city roll and blink open, waiting for outstretched hands to slot into. He heard it, however, a sniffling sound like a hunting dog on a trail if dogs breathed in shallow, syncopated breaths. On the exhale was a purling click of echolocation. Sam wrapped himself tighter, slipping into stealth routines, and looked back. The pale man stood at the bottom of the stairs, hands stretched in front of him and eyes rolling in a wide scan from his palm. Skin hung from him, too loose, drooping and melting. He moved, and Sam was reminded of cold winters with too few nuyens: layers upon layers, each ill-fitting and bunching in useless bulk around his hips. He didn't want to know how the pale man gained its skins.

Around the corner was more of the narrow alleyways, twisting and running into nonsensical dead-ends. It wasn't a maze, Sam realized. A maze would have been planned and designed, would have had workable paths. The city had been scrambled, like a photograph stuck to a child’s sliding block puzzle. He climbed a staircase that lead to a tiled patio, which was abruptly cut-off. A table with an abandoned cup of coffee hung on the edge, indicating where a chair and a door should be. Below him, the streets shifted, or maybe the building he was on moved, making Sam wish at least one visual cue would stay stable to provide him with a mental North. With enough height and a fulcrum, he could unravel the blocks and slide them home.

A loud screech made him drop to his stomach, hands and cheeks burning where they pressed against the tile. The shift had turned his vantage point into an island with the stairs leading to a blind wall. The streets below him had straightened out and opened, making room for the pale man’s shuffling steps as he closed the distance separating them. Sam could hear him, but he didn’t dare stand and look over the balustrade or send out sensor pings. It didn’t seem to matter; the thing was being drawn to his presence anyway. It knew he was intruding, and no amount of sleaze would hide him forever; he had to get out. “**Cold carbon copied coping,**” climbed the wall across the alley from him, enticing and leading to what was probably another terrasse several floors high. It was as good a target as any. Sam pushed away from the floor and winced at the scraping sound he made as he got his legs under him, crouching in preparation. He took an unneeded breath to settle his nerves and jumped, dropping the stealth as he uncurled. His wings beat once, lifting him easily and casting deep shadows upon the wall so that he was looking back at his own demon-self.

For a moment, for a fleeting glorious moment, he thought he was in the clear. That he could reach that rooftop and gain enough distance to figure out where he was going, make a plan, find a logical course of action. Until the pale man snarled behind him and jumped, clinging to the wall as its claw-like fingers dug into the plaster. Again and again, too fast, leapfrogging until it caught up to Sam and grabbed his right wing with its left hand. Grabbed and_ tore_, ripping the leather of the wings using Sam’s own momentum. Its skin was cold, the wetness of the eye in its palm an unwanted contrast. It tumbled down when the leathery skin of Sam’s wings gave up and turned to shreds.

He screamed. The pain echoed from the simulation, down out of the host and into his body, flooding his mind with chemical panic. Emergency log-out protocols blinked over his vision, counting down quickly as self-preservation instincts kicked in and tried to get him out and to safety. Sam waved them away before they could complete their routine, biting his lip hard enough to taste blood. If he left now, he would never be able to get back in. With a groan and a roar he reached out with his left hand, and as much of the smoke tendrils of his body as he could, up and away from the pale man and onto the roof. He scratched at the wall with his talons, gaining traction against the plaster before it crumbled and vanished. The nothingness left behind was cold and it leached away his senses with every contact. 

Sam caught the edge of the roof, digging claws into the tile there, and allowed himself a split second of breath. He heard the sticky jumping movement of the pale man as it came back for a second lunge. Sam closed his eyes and waited for the thing to attack, but this time, he moved with it, pushing his arm, shoulder, and injured wing through the broken wall and into the nothingness. With a screeching hiss, the pale man followed, swallowed or dissolved there so quickly that Sam couldn’t have said where, exactly, he had been. Sam pulled himself up to safety, the right side of his body hanging limp and useless as he flopped onto his back. He was grateful for that numbness, at least. 

The building shook, its integrity compromised, and toppled slowly, like a tree after the last blow of the axe. Sam laughed, a bit hysterical, as he slid over the edge and fell in an uncontrolled spiral. 

Soft, green moss absorbed his landing. Wet, squelching, and several inches thick, it smelled of life under a layer of bruised chlorophyll. Sam spat, wishing he could rinse the earthy taste of it from his tongue and doing his best to avoid thinking of mealworms and ants. He stood up slowly, as reflexes made him hold his injured arm against his chest. He knew his right hand rested against his collarbone and his left hand was holding his elbow, but he couldn’t feel either point of contact. He refused to look at his wing.

The medina was gone around him, replaced by a meadow, a natural amphitheatre of grey rocks and mature trees. He couldn’t see far into the forest as it dissolved into a blur of shadows and mottled light like an impressionist painting. It didn’t matter. There was a building nestled between the rocks at the far end of the clearing. It might once have been a cabin or a warmth refuge. But the abstract stained glass window spoke of a chapel built to a faith long lost. If there had been a door, it had fallen off its hinges long ago.

Walking was harder than standing. Sam shuffled to the building in small, careful, penguin steps. His balance was shot and he kept overcompensating for the weight of the right side of his body. He felt nothing, and somehow that translated into expecting it to be a solid mass of lead. He leaned his good shoulder against the threshold, waiting for his eyes to adjust. It was dim inside and the shards of rainbows swayed on the walls from the stained glass windows as if the light outside was being blocked by the wave of limbs or dancing bodies. Sam leaned back as far as he dared, but the forest was still and silent, the afternoon light placid. What he could see of the sky was monochromatic, like spilled blue paint.

“Dream logic,” he said out loud.

“Not quite, but you’re close,” answered the woman from inside the chapel.

Sam stepped in properly so that he could see her, leaning over a table where the altar might otherwise have been. The surface was covered with spread blueprints, marked with stickers and miscellaneous placeholders. “Memories, then. I’m sifting through your memories.”

“Almost.” Her lips twitched in what might have been a smile. She was the same woman as from the recording, older, her eyes colder, She was dressed in combat fashion with an asymmetrical tank top that covered one shoulder and her neck. If she’d throw on a black trenchcoat she’d fit in with any number of street samurai. “Recordings. Static pictures of moments.”

“How is that different from memories?”

“A memory is changed every time you look back at it. The recollection morphs it, changes it. It lives with you. A recording is synthetic. It is a tool and nothing more.”

Sam nodded. “Is that what’s on the drive? A way to make recordings?”

“When we started, we aimed so small. We looked for a way to capture things, to stave off dementia, to remind the brain of its own past.” 

“Things got bigger?”

“Once you’ve captured the past, what shaped a person, it’s easy to know how they will behave in the future. Once you know their future, it doesn’t take much to make the last jump.”

“Ghosts,” Sam said, awed. “You found a way to make ghosts in the matrix. On command. Like you.”

“Not like me. This—” she gestured to herself and then to the building “—is a recording. A hack job of simulation. When you find me, you’ll see. I should have burnt it down. It’s too late for me, but you’re going to help me. Burn it down. You’re going to help me burn it down.”

Before Sam could answer, even if he had known what to answer at all, he was pulled backwards. He dug his talons into the dry wood of the chapel, but couldn’t stop, could barely slow. He reached out towards the woman and grit his teeth. He was so close to getting his answer. A high pitch noise warned him ahead of the next pull and he grabbed on the image before him, snipping the frame to take with him as he was reeled in like a fish.

The satellite uplink shattered and fell apart, leaving the host dark and grey again. Sam coughed in the dirt, too dazed to fight against the force pulling him away. His shoulder hurt. His_ right _shoulder hurt, for which he would have been grateful if it wasn’t screaming in agony. The clinks of chain links accompanied the lurching movement. 

“Charlie?” He rolled over to his back, regretting the choice almost immediately. It did, however, allow him to focus on Charlie’s mask as she bent over him. A burst of colour past her shoulder let him know they were no longer alone. Alice’s avatar, or at least the one she chose for this job, was a swirl of flowers forming a blue and white dress with a yellow curly wig. She had no face. Sam supposed he was meant to be surprised at the sight of both her and the white rabbit at her feet as separate entities. He couldn’t find it in him to muster the energy to act confused. If Alice had a secret partner with her, he really didn’t care.

“I was expecting you alone,” Alice said.

“She’s a friend.” It wasn’t an answer, and he wasn’t expecting it to be taken as one. 

“You should count yourself lucky.” She turned toward Charlie and bowed. Her right hand flitted in a rapid-fire of jive signals, their meaning as opaque to Sam as the fact that they were a signal was clear. From the corner of his eyes, he saw Charlie bow and signal in return.

“You two know each other?” Sam asked, with an edge of petulance. It wasn’t that he didn’t like sharing his friends, not at all. Charlie punched him in the stomach as an answer. 

“You stupid, selfish, flamboyantly careless ass, what exactly do you think you’re doing?” Charlie’s hat cast dramatic shadows upon her face, and Sam had no doubt she’d be frowning if she had facial expressions.

“Getting answers,” replied Sam. He pulled up the image capture he’d grabbed on his way out and showed it to Charlie. 

“Pretty. Who is she?”

“I don’t know. The one everyone’s after, I think.” He let the image go. “Anything you can tell me?” he asked Alice.

“Would that I could. I came to make sure you found your way back, but clearly I’m the third wheel here. Call me with updates, Moose.” She logged-out in a collapse of petals and the color faded until they became indistinguishable from the dust. 

“I need out of here,” said Sam. 

“Good. You’ve got places to be. I’m tired of playing secretary for you.”

When the emergency log out routines blinked back on, Sam let them run, watching the numbers until they reached zero and all became blessedly black. 


	8. The Collector

Growing up in the back seat of his father’s Impala — growing into Dean’s stretched out hand-me-downs and into new ways to disappoint John — Sam would sort his animal crackers. He’d build his own Ark in the sea of shiny black leather, carefully pairing the animals two by two and making sure the pairs were a good and happy match. Any broken or sickly animal got discarded into the great beyond of what happened after chewing. Then he ate the single ones, piece by piece and slowly because they deserved love too. When he’d rounded out on the pairs he’d eat them quickly, so that they wouldn’t be sad and miss each other. He started with the tigers and the lions, anything with claws and fangs, taking out the monsters to protect the other animals. He’d stretch the story out for as long as he could on the endless highways and through the dead space between cities. In the end, he’d eat them all, guilty and hunting the last crumbs with fingers made sticky by licking. Food was sparse and toys were rarer still. 

As he jolted out of the Matrix now, Sam didn’t even pause to think about the shapes of the animals he was eating. He was as sweaty and sore as he would have been after running a marathon. His back and his jaw hurt, he was dizzy from dehydration and his blood sugar was low. He shovelled the crackers into his mouth by the fistful, shaking the packet for crumbs. 

Charlie threw a couple of individual foil pouches of peanuts and a bottle of violently blue sports drink next to him. “When’s the last time you got properly fed and watered anyway?”

Sam shrugged in answer, fingers tearing into the foil and mouth too busy with glorious salty proteins to bother with words. 

“Yeah, I thought so. Come on Samsquatch. Let’s fill you up.”

Mama’s table was the kind of place location scouts found for the trid shows but could never afford and so they built endless copies in cheap set cardboard. It was always open, at all hours and in all weathers. It offered lights, warmth, a place to sit and — if you were nice about it — a place to shower. It also offered food, as long as you liked starchy and fried. It was nestled in the no man’s land north of the Barrens and over the years it had grown into a neutral ground. Gangers and civilians shared the seats at the bar for hashbrowns drowned in soycaf as cops and runners ignored each other in the booths with professional courtesy. Troublemakers were dealt with by Mama, by the ancient shotgun she kept by the cash register and by whatever ganger was on door duty. In that order. 

Sam closed his eyes as he ate, self-aware enough to know his moans sounded properly pornographic and hungry enough not to care. Or at least not to care as long as he couldn’t see the amused horror mixed with judgement on Charlie’s face. 

“You’re right,” said Jody’s voice. “That is prime blackmail material.”

“You—” He swallowed and opened his eyes to squint at Jody as she sat next to Charlie. “—wouldn’t dare.” He reached out for more of the home cut fries — each a dark brown colour from the oil, thicker than a finger and drenched with salt — then dunked the entire handful into the top of his milkshake and swirled to coat them in sugar slurry. The curry dipping sauce that had come with the fries order sat abandoned by the side of the plate. 

“I don’t know. Your brother would pay a pretty penny for this footage.” Jody winked at him and reached over to steal a fry. “How you can be the healthy eating crusader and then _this_. What flavour is that, anyway?”

“Caramel and fudge,” said Sam. he straightened up and wiped his fingers and lips clean on a napkin. “They make the caramel in house and push it really dark, almost bitter? With the sweetness of the chocolate and the salt from the fries, it’s the best thing ever. But you can’t tell Dean. I’ll never hear the end of it.” 

“My lips are sealed.” 

Charlie shook her head. “I’ll plead the fifth.” She turned to Jody and grabbed her in a hug, startling a surprised yelp out of the detective as she did. “You’re my witness that he was in good working order when I handed him over.”

“Do you need a receipt?”

“Don’t tempt me. Alright, guys, I’m being called away, no rest for the wicked and all that jazz. Take care of him for me?” 

“You have my word.” Jody smiled fondly and placed a hand on her heart as she spoke. 

“Thanks for the help, Charlie!” Sam waved with the hand wasn’t holding food. 

She got up and waved back at him without an answer, headed to the counter. “His bill’s on him,” she said to Mama as she handed her credstick over. 

The troll nodded and walked over to the table after Charlie had left. She was one of the few people that left Sam feeling the way he usually made others feel: small and dwarfed. She stood a few inches over eight feet tall and a variety of horns circled her head like a crown, poking through her bandana. Her right eye glowed faintly green from the low-rated cyber replacement. 

“Everything alright?” she asked Sam.

“Yeah, everything’s perfect. Thanks, Mama.”

She grunted in acknowledgement and turned to Jody. “What about you?”

“Coffee and a donut, if you have fresh ones?”

“Honey, I always have fresh ones for you.” She clasped Jody on the shoulder and retreated to the counter. 

“How are you holding up?” asked Jody once they were alone.

Sam sighed and pushed his plate away. “Can I take a raincheck on the concern? I feel like my name should be Sam of the Many Mothers right now and… it’s a bit much?”

“That’s a new one. But fine. I can allow for a one week deferral of nagging.” 

“Thank you.” He met Jody’s eye and tried to smile, gathering from her expression that he probably missed by about a mile. “To what do I owe the pleasure? Not that I’m not stoked to see you, but I thought it was a bad thing to be in the same place in public.”

“Everyone uses this place to meet with their CI.” She smiled and thanked Mama as the troll brought her a large mug of steaming soycaf and a fried doughnut larger than a human’s hand. “The guys two table overs are IA. They don’t want me to tell their bosses who they’re talking to either.”

“Cold War cop politics. Who knew?” He chuckled. “So, what can I do for you on this most off-the-books of meetings?”

“She didn’t tell you?”

“She might have. I was… probably not paying attention.”

Jody’s eyes crinkled as she smiled in delight. “Well then, I get to tell you myself. I found your ghost.” 

The house wasn’t the largest in Bellevue — that honour went to a sprawling atrocity of white stucco and gated fences that squatted over what had once been a neighbourhood, like a gargoyle guarding the bones of dreams — but it was larger than Sam was comfortable with. It rose three stories high, with the kind of angles that made architects win trophies and carpenters weep. 

Sam pulled at the too-tight neck of his shirt and shifted his shoulders under the stiff fabric of the suit. His right arm trembled and he shoved the hand in his pocket, fingers squeezed into a fist until he could feel his nails bite into his palm. He reached with his left hand to knock on the door but it opened before he could make contact. 

The man who opened the door might have been mistaken for a butler, if not for the two long-bladed knives sheathed along his thighs. His hair was cropped army short and the neutral smile he wore did not reach his eyes. Sam could get no read off him, not even the passive presence of a comlink.

“Master Sinclair will be down shortly,” said the man. “If you could wait in the sitting room. May I take your coat?”

“Oh, no, thank you,” answered Sam as he followed him, distracted. As soon as he stepped into the house, silence had washed over him, muffling and then cancelling even the background noise of the Matrix. There was no signal in or out: the house was a dead zone combining powerful jammers and layers of metal in the structure forming a Faraday cage. “I won’t be staying long.”

“As you wish. I will send someone to collect it later. There are refreshments on the table.” He opened a door of opaque frosted glass and gestured for Sam to enter. The door closed with the soft click of a tumbling lock.

The room was large and warm if completely anachronistic. There were wooden chairs with overstuffed cushions, a fireplace piled with cut wood as if waiting to be lit, and bookshelves filled with the colourful uniformity of cardboard books. A lacquered table, dressed with lace doilies, presented several crystal decanters, glasses, and silver platters filled with cut fruit and cured meats.

“I wouldn't try any of the drinks.”

Sam startled. He’d seen the man, standing by the window and surveying the bucolic English garden being broadcasted in, but his brain had glossed over the fact. Now that he was seeing him, really seeing him, Sam wondered how that was even possible. The man was about as tall and as large as he was, though he hid it under a sleek wool coat with an upturned collar. He turned to face Sam, pulling a drag from a cigarette and blowing out the smoke with a sardonic smirk. He had an angular face, cuts on his nose, bruises on one cheek, and cold, hazel-coloured eyes. Killer’s eyes.

“Wasn’t planning to,” Sam answered. “Probably drugged. Same with the food.”

“Smart man.” 

Hydraulic hisses and clanks made Sam swallow his answer. The bookcase closest to the window had moved a few inches backward and slid into the wall along well-oiled tracks. Low hissing and the clicking of claws told Sam what was hidden in the secret compartment before he saw them. He pulled his gun and fired as the other man turned around. The first bullet hit its target but the second went off course and landed uselessly in the wall. 

The first might have missed as well, for all the good it did.

The man dropped to a crouch, turning so that his back was to the window. The ghoul that had jumped from the hidden passage vaulted over him, landing with a snarl in the empty corner. It sniffed the air, blind milky eyes turning as it inspected the room. It was crawling on the floor, long sharp claws that had once been fingers and toes ripping through the woven rugs and leaving frayed tracks behind. Its skin was bleached white, streaked, where the virus had stripped away the flesh's colour.

It lunged again, in a great leaping movement that led with its front claws but only because arms gave them reach. Its mouth opened, too wide, like the jaw could dislocate and extend, and revealed rows of razor-sharp points. Predator teeth, perfectly designed for the ghoul's diet of raw human flesh. 

Sam cursed and dropped his gun, unwilling to catch the other man in the crossfire. He pulled back his own coat and unsheathed the machete strapped to his thigh. Bringing this many weapons to as nice an area as Bellevue had been a risk, but Dean had insisted. Sam would have to thank him, at some point. He might even have to do it out loud. 

The second ghoul, slower or older, or perhaps a little bit less feral and retaining some human cunning, took advantage of Sam’s hesitation to attack. It had crept around the chairs and hidden until it jumped. Sam turned on instinct, muscle memory lining up the blade. He hit the ghoul in the arm, blade digging deep into the muscle and nicking the bone. With a grunt Sam kicked the ghoul free and arced the blade around, finding the space between vertebrae in the neck. He pushed with all his strength into the follow-through and down until the dull thump of the head hitting the ground rewarded him for the effort. 

A grunt and the crash of glass let him know the other man wasn’t having as much success. 

The ghoul scrambled over the flipped table, snarling and angry. One of its arms trailed, broken and useless at its side. The man grabbed the ghoul’s arm and used its momentum to drive punches to its ribs and kidneys. The ghoul didn’t react, it strained until its joint dislocated so that it could draw blood. It ripped away the collar of the coat, claws tangled in the buckle there. 

Sam whistled and the man glanced at him, eyes bouncing from the machete to Sam’s eyes and he nodded. He turned, carrying the ghoul with him so that Sam could get a clean line of attack. 

The second head fell to the floor with a wet squelch sound. 

“You're welcome,” said Sam, as he took a deep breath to calm the beating of his heart. “Did you get scratched?”

“No. I'm fine,” answered the man. “Urg, I was hoping to avoid being in the splash zone, you know?”

He moved to wipe the blood from his face and Sam snatched his wrist, pulling his hand back hard. 

“Don't. You have open wounds. We don’t want you to turn into a plague carrier.”

The man nodded and fell silent. When Sam released him he crossed his arms at the small of his back, falling into an easy military stance. Sam didn't question it. He rummaged through the wreckage of the table and pulled the lace doilies, shaking as he did to dislodge the shards of broken decanters. With a quick prayer that the booze hadn’t been laced with anything that could act on contact, he started removing the blood from the man’s face. He moved slow and methodical, making sure no drop was left behind, though he would have felt better if he could wash away the remains, better even if he had proper medical supplies to sterilize everything. 

“Thank you,” said the man.

“Ah, I have seen you two are already getting along. Splendid, it should make things so much more pleasant.” Cuthbert Sinclair — though most nights he preferred his chosen name of Magnus — was standing in the now open door, rubbing his hands in delight. “Let's move this conversation to my study and let the help clean this up, shall we? I wouldn't want to be rude and have you deal with the boring minutiae.”

“You call this being a good host?” asked the man.

“Of course, Mr. Kovacs. Actions speak much louder than words and the way the two of you handled this little test was, simply, magnificent. Impostors would have failed and my pet ghouls would have been fed.” He gestured again for them to follow him out of the room. “A shame about the specimens, of course, but they should be easy enough to replace.”

“They used to be people,” said Kovacs.

“Yes!” Magnus answered with glee. “Which is why they are quite easy to acquire. Humanity is a self-perpetuating resource, after all.”

“You are messed up in the head, you know that?”

“It has been said before.”

Sam remained silent, counting turns and mapping out the maze of the house in his mind. The corridors were wood-panelled and deliberately similar, each wall sconce, painting, and oaken door bleeding into the others until the mind lost all visual cues. Their destination was a showcase room. It was set up like a cross between an art gallery and a museum, with climate-controlled glass cases lining the walls and low shelves with carefully displayed pieces on every flat surface. It was nestled deep inside the house and had no windows.

Magnus rummaged through a ceramic plate that held small loose items, cufflinks and rings for the most part.

“Ah yes, here we are. This, I believe is what you are looking for?” He turned to face them, holding the drive between his thumb and index. He smirked and started rolling it over his knuckles like a coin or a large poker chip.

Kovacs answered with a sharp inhale. 

“As satisfying as that response is, Mr. Kovacs, I was talking to Moose here.”

“You know it is Magnus,” said Sam.

“And what do you bring as a trade?” Magnus licked his lips, too slowly to be an unconscious tic. Sam could almost feel his gaze on him, heavy and possessive. It wasn't sexual — though Sam was sure it could be swayed that route — more like the naked desire of a collector walking a gallery.

“How about you hand it over and I don't rip out your fucking throat,” Kovacs said. His voice was low and strangled.

“Sure. Why not.” 

He tossed the drive with a flick of the wrist. The throw was low and to the side, forcing Kovacs to lunge in order to catch it.

“What’s the catch?” asked Sam. “You plan for us to fight over it?”

“Ahh, there is the famed wit, the reason they call you the smart brother. Are you sure I can't interest you in a drink?” He poured three glasses without waiting for an answer. “I have already seen you fight, and that will do, for now.”

“The fuck is that supposed to mean?” asked Kovacs.

“He has no intention of letting us out of here,” answered Sam. 

“Very good! Oh don't look at me like that, you'll find yourself liking it here, sooner than you’d think. You won't even want to leave.”

“I very much doubt that,” said Kovacs.

Magnus shrugged and approached with the drinks. Sam took the glass. If nothing else, the heavy cut crystal would make a good bludgeon. Kovacs took his drink as well, then, locking eyes with Magnus, spilled the contents on the shelf nearest to him. The amber liquid pooled and dripped, seeping under the display of a dusty tome.

“I am no one's pet,” he said. “And I am leaving.”

Magnus sighed and put down his own glass. “This was expected, but very disappointing. We will have to work on that bratty streak. _Mentem tuam ac voluntatem adsumo_.” He spoke with mild annoyance like a teacher watching the antics of a favourite pupil. It made the casual way the spell spilled from his lips all the more terrifying.

The magic surged through the room, slamming into Sam and Kovacs like a hidden, rolling wave. Sam felt the foci sewn inside his clothes grow warm, almost singing as it absorbed the onslaught. Kovacs was not as lucky, and as the magic retreated it drained the expressions from his face and all emotions from his eyes.

“Oh, how adorable. You came prepared,” said Magnus as he turned to Sam. “That is very good. But at this little game, I cannot lose. Your trinket will turn to ash before I even break a sweat. I wonder where you’ve hidden it. Finding the brand will be a fun game, I’m sure.” 

The second spell was targeted, focused where the first had been broad. Sam gritted his teeth as the foci absorbed and deflected the magic away from his mind. Hair and flesh burnt in streams of acrid smoke, and for a moment he was convinced the fabric of his pants would catch fire. On the third spell, Sam screamed.

As he fell to his knees, the door opened. Sam blinked away the tears in his eyes until the slightly scuffed combat boots came into focus. He looked up, eyes following the lines of dark clothes and sheathed blades until he could make out the man that had greeted him at the door. He was whispering urgently in Magnus’ ear, too low for Sam to hear. Magnus looked unhappy and soured, lips pressed thin and glaring at Sam. Red lights flashed through the open door in a silent alarm.

“That,” Sam said as he got to his feet, “is my cue. I believe you now have other cats to skin.”

“Your brother coming for you is not unexpected. My people can deal with a rogue runner.”

“It’s not Squirrel you should be afraid of. It’s the rain he brought with him.”

“Sir,” interrupted the henchman. “If you want us to hold back the High Threat Response team currently making a landing on the grounds we will need the full security systems to be online.”

“And that,” said Sam, “is why you’re gonna let me go. Because your choices are to leave it off and let them tear through here unopposed. They will find your collection and dismantle it, take the bits they want for their own. Or you turn it on and try to hold us. I will rip it apart, and you know it. I’m sure a few locks are analogues, but how many aren’t? How good is your security spider, under stress?” 

Magnus didn’t answer right away, the line of his lips almost gone. 

“I didn’t think so.” He turned toward Kovacs, who was still standing immobile and empty-eyed. His right hand was closed into a fist, white-knuckled around the drive. “I’m getting you out of here too.” 

“This is not over!” 

Sam shook his head. “You’re breathing. Squirrel would have your head.”

No answer came, just a shivering rush over Sam’s skin, in the wake of the jammers shutting down. Static and garbled noises followed, then Dean’s voice delivering orders in clipped words. 

“North wall, follow me,” said Sam to Kovacs as he started running. The other man followed, falling behind him and off to his side with long-practiced ease. Sam brushed along the security system and the house’s schematic appeared in an overlay, alarms blinking on and off in cascades. He felt the presence of Magnus’ security expert, who was very conspicuously staying out of their way. 

“_Duck_,” said Dean, and Sam skidded on the too slick epoxied floors of the kitchen. He dragged Kovacs with him, holding the man’s head down as an explosion took out the far wall.

Sam shook debris out of his hair, squinting at the blooming cloud where the wall had been. The dust swirled in the drafts of powerful rotors, cut by the seeping sear of a searchlight.

“_What happened to a subtle extraction?_”

“_Shit came up, we had to improvise. You’re welcome_,” Dean answered. 

“_Thanks_,” Sam said automatically, grabbing Kovacs arm to pull him towards the exit. “_Rest of the plan is still on?_”

“_Yeah. What’s with him?_”

“_He's coming with me_.”

Dean gave the man a long assessing look, the kind of look that usually led to a laundry list of complaints, then seemed to think the better of it. “_If you're sure_.” 

He tossed Sam a set of keys, the size of them wrong in all aspects, but the gesture was familiar.

Cas was waiting outside, one arm stretched in front of him. Sam suspected that anyone else would have missed the trembling in his hand from the strain. He was standing next to a motorcycle, covered in overlapped faded paint and pockmarks. 

“_We’ve got this_.” He turned his head to look at Sam as he spoke. Light swirled in his eyes, swallowing the pupil and iris into an eldritch display. “_Go_.”

A high pitch whine cut any argument and hesitation Sam had. The helicopter squatted above the house like a nightmare of blackened steel and exhaust fumes. The spotlight stripped all shadows around them into deformed stretched lines. For a moment the world held its breath then the exhale came and the bullets started flying. 

A foot in front of Castiel’s hand, they stopped. The bullets hung there, studding the space in brass and steel. 

Sam straddled the bike and Kovacs followed him without prompting. The motor roared to life as Sam kicked the bike into gear. He pushed down the urge to turn, to look back, to wait. Dean and Cas could handle it and the whole endeavour would be wasted if he stayed. Kovacs leaned against him, holding on with his knees and snaking his arms around Sam’s torso. A corner of drive dug against the soft flesh of Sam’s abdomen, still clutched in a white-knuckled grip, as Kovacs settled. They were both big men and the bike had only ever been meant for one rider.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look Frogie! Sam listenned to you!


	9. Glow City

The roads that linked the gated clusters of Bellevue were wide and smooth, paved with bitumen so new it absorbed light like black velvet. The painted lines reflected light almost angrily: an army line of rectangular flares that fought back against the late-night intrusion of chaos into an orderly world. Sam opened the throttle as wide as he could, hoping to gain some distance while Cas’ barrier spell held. There were no straight roads in this division of the Sprawl, only lazy snaking curves and loops meant to discourage traffic. They worked as designed, and Sam cursed under his breath, leaning into a turn as low as he dared go. He was pleasantly surprised when Kovacs leaned into the movement and out again, as he had fully expected the other man to be a dead weight against his back. 

The relief was short-lived as the searchlight from the chopper crested one of the mansions, leading the roaring thunder of the rotors. There was too much wind and noise to make out the whining noise of the machinegun picking up speed, but Sam could feel the impact of the bullets on the road as they snaked closer to his rear wheel. He swerved into the driveway of the next house, hoping to break the line of sight or at least give pause to the gunman. He could see the exit ramp to the highway, painted in blue and red by the lights of the cops as they streamed in in response to what was probably a catastrophic number of distress calls. 

There was a cleaner exit route if he used the manicured landscapes yard and the narrower jogging paths down the hill. He’d have to hope the dew-laden ground would hold, counting on engineered drainage systems and hubris to have kept the rain away. It would also help him avoid the spike strips the cops would have kicked over the street by now if they followed their protocols. He’d just have to make sure they focused their efforts on the real threat as he made his way out. 

“STOP THE VEHICLE AND SURRENDER,” said a voice projected from the helicopter’s speaker. “NOBODY ELSE NEEDS TO DIE HERE TONIGHT. HAND OVER THE STOLEN GOODS.” 

Sam’s heart lodged into his throat on the word “else”, a sudden stainless steel mass that blocked all air. He growled over it, primal, and a soft chuckle in his ear let him know Dean was also calling the bluff. Sam unclipped his pistol from its holster, pressing it into Kovacs' hand. It took an unnervingly long time for the man to react before he tentatively wrapped his fingers over the grip. Sam wished he could sense a comlink on Kovacs, some way of talking to him over the ambient din, but he hoped the implicit order would be enough. 

“THIS IS YOUR FINAL WARNING,” said the voice again, and this time Sam didn’t have any issue placing it back to Henricksen and the Mall. He wondered what the record was for slipping through the fingers of a Red Samurai team leader. There was probably a free drink to be had out of it.

The soil held as Sam drove off the pavement. The grass did not, sinking under the wheels before ripping and erupting into a geyser of dirt in their wake. Sam grunted under the weight as the change in traction threatened to slip the vehicle from underneath him. The bike fought him, ill-suited to off-road driving and the uneven terrain. Sam regained control and picked a path through the flower bed and the craned-in exotic stone. Behind him the chopper gained altitude to clear the house, driving away the night with unsteady but welcome light. The indignant chirps of a thousand sensors rose across Sam’s vision before he blinked them away. 

The cops were waiting, deployed into tactical arrays and aiming at them, as Sam reached the end of the grounds. He had no intention of slowing down. He felt Kovacs shift, the hand that held the drive now also fisting a good amount of the fabric on Sam’s shirt, the other hand gone completely from his torso. The overlay for the smartlink flashed along with the bullet he was firing, missing widely and then hitting the reinforced glass of the chopper’s windshield with scary accuracy. The gunman didn’t like that, firing up a new line, closer now, less careful about disabling without destroying the goods. Sam swerved as he crossed to the pavement from the concrete jogging path, letting the bullet fly past him and into the Lone Star patrol car. Two officers closest to him shouted, probably about surrender. The other reacted to the direct threat, shifting their focus to the chopper. Sam reached out and tapped Kovacs’ leg, kicking the bike into gear once more and making a beeline for the highway. 

Highway I-5 was deserted, but this time the sight flooded Sam with relief. A press and a shift indicated that Kovacs had returned the handgun to its holster, clip empty and useless. Sam risked a glance at the road behind them. There were two Lone Star units in pursuit, which was unfortunate but probably the best he could have hoped for. An explosion bloomed in angry orange and red, gasoline and plastic fueled, from the base of the ramp. The smoke was dispelled by the helicopter as it hungrily closed the distance.

“_They don’t give up do they?_”

“_No_,” answered Cas. His voice was less rumbly than usual, out of breath and pained. “_But we accounted for that._” 

If Dean added something, Sam didn’t hear, or maybe he heard and didn’t pay attention. His target was coming up, the blown-up debris from the wall had been swept and cleared and the construction scaffold rearranged into what suspiciously looked like a ramp. There was a figure standing on top of the wall, holding a road flare as a signal. The proportions were off, too short and too broad, with alien limbs growing above its head. Sam turned up the ramp and through the walls as the ignition of the rocket-propelled grenade sparked. The dwarf’s feet were anchored to the wall by something Sam couldn’t see and he was mostly swallowed by the backpack-mounted RPG assault kit. He was smiling and laughing as Sam passed. The shockwave hit them a few seconds later, hot and concussive. Sam turned into Redmond and the barrens swallowed his trail. 

The room was small, filled with stale air that smelled of rust despite the lazy churn of the ventilator that had been built into the skylight. The walls were metal, oxidized into shades of oranges and blackened reds where they were barren, covered in esoteric symbols elsewhere. A devils’ trap covered the area of the room, mirrored in wrought iron on the vent above. It was only meant for one person at a time, safehouse and prison in a compact, hard to find, package.

The iron door closed under its own weight behind Sam, clanking into place as the first level locks engaged. Sam sighed and let himself sink down to the ground, back braced against the door, mindful not to crush or drop the bag he was carrying. Exhaustion was dancing at the edge of his mind, in dark spots and floating lights as well as an artificial shallowness to his breathing. He needed to sleep, preferably for a week, and to get someone to look at his ribs and hopefully pronounce it nothing more than a strain.

The problem was that there was only one cot in the safehouse. It was a sad thing of metal tubes and stretched canvas with a pillow that was barely a lump and tattered blankets. It was also currently occupied by the unconscious mass of one absolute stranger, curled on his side into a fetal position and still holding on to the quantum drive like a talisman. Not for the first time, Sam cursed his own instinct. He couldn’t have lived with himself, leaving the man behind for Magnus to break, but the plan hadn’t accounted for strays. He let his head fall back against the door and closed his eyes, lulled to sleep between one breath and the next. 

When Sam woke up the edge of his machete was being held against his neck, close enough to shave and unwavering. Adrenaline cleared the haziness of sleep from his eyes and a sad roadmap of similar experiences froze him in place. Kovacs was holding the blade, crouched down and leaning in so that Sam could see the spidering splinters of the veins in his eyes.

“What’s this place?” asked Kovacs, and Sam couldn’t decode the emotion in tone, only that was closer to anger than fear or malice. 

“Some place to lay-low for a while. It’s safe here.” 

“Bullshit. Nobody brings a stranger to their bolt hole.” 

“And yet here we are. If I wanted to kill you, I’d have done it in your sleep. Not patched you up.” 

Kovacs frowned and looked at his arm, bare except for a tightly wound bandage and the frayed threads where his shirt’s sleeve had been cut. He craned his neck to scan the room, lingering on the small writing desk where Sam had folded his coat, next to the cherry red first aid kit. He raised his free hand to drag the tips of his fingers over the scrapes on his nose and to dig, hard, into the bandaged area 

“Numbing spray” Sam explained quickly, sensing the opportunity there. It wasn't too different from soothing a victim in a monster hunt or softening a mark during a con. Not different at all. He had mastered the puppy dog eyes well before John had taught his boys how to hustle.

Sam pointed to the bag next to him, moving only his wrist and making sure his hand stayed low. “I brought you food.” 

Then he waited, intimately acquainted with exactly how sharp the edge of any blade he owned was, how Dean practiced his own version of zen with a whetstone. The moment stretched into a full minute as Kovacs stared at him, searching for something. Then, as sudden and quiet as the initial threat had come, he backed away to sit on the cot.

“What kind of food?”

“Soylent shake. And a few other things.” Sam slowly unfolded his legs, stretching them out. Now that his heart rate was coming down, he realized how stiff and sore his limbs were. He knew better than to try and stand up right away. In the confined space there would be no way to seem nonthreatening, to avoid invading personal space. 

Kovacs grabbed a bottle and broke the seal in one motion, machete set beside him on the bed like it was nothing but a pillow or comfort blanket. He took two long swallows of the shake, draining the bottle halfway and then fully with barely a pause for breath in between. He shook out the rest of the bag on the floor.

“Is the cake supposed to do that?”

Sam chuckled and picked up the pastry. The chemically dyed pink flakes were meant to resemble coconut and they glowed faintly in the ambient gloom, somewhere between raver glow-in-the-dark and deep-sea medusa.

“Yeah. Glow City limited edition twinkies: the first edible Geiger counter,” he said in a sing-song voice, humming the jingle until the unimpressed stare from Kovacs made him cough in embarrassment. “The whole stock has been sitting too long by now, so they just... glow. They're fine to eat. Fat and sugar, but calories are calories.” Sam dug through the rest of the pile and shook a small plastic pill bottle. “Iodine. If you're worried.”

“Glow City? You go snack hunting near a reactor having an active meltdown?”

Sam raised his hands in a helpless gesture. “You were out of it and there’s only so far I could go on foot.”

“You have got to be shitting me.”

Sam knocked on the door above his head, making the metal echo in a dull bell sound around them. “Iron and lead walls, blocks all signals. The radiation polluted the astral as well, so spirits won't come and the warding stops mages from spying in.”

“How long do you mean to keep us here?”

“You're free to go,” said Sam. “I'm gonna lay low for a few days until whatever search parties they can coerce to scout out Redmond back away. My team's keeping an eye on things. You're welcome to stay.”

Kovacs sighed and rolled his eyes. He flipped the machete, catching the blade and extending the handle towards Sam. “You’re either crazy or a naive bastard.”

“I’ve been called worse.” Sam took the weapon and got to his feet, slowly, wincing as each joint popped. “I’m Moose, by the way.”

“Takeshi Kovacs. My friends call me Tak.”

“Is that what I am, a friend?”

“You sure as fuck would be a lousy enemy at this point.”

Sam didn’t know what answer he would have given to that, he was aiming at stammering his way through with some encouraging nods, but it was swallowed by the yawn that took him over. It was the kind of yawn that commandeered not just the lungs, but almost dislocated the jaw and made him blind as his eyes squinted shut. “Sorry,” he said, once it had passed.

Tak chuckled and shook his head. “Jesus Christ you’re barely holding together. How long were you on that floor?”

“About an hour?” Sam stammered, confused. 

“And how long was I passed out?” 

“About ten. Whatever Magnus hit you with was meant to knock both of us out. I got you to lie down and told you to rest and you went out like a light.”

“Willpower drain,” said Tak with a sneer. “It’s nasty stuff, army interrogators love that trick.” He threw Sam the pillow and gesture to the bed. “Come on. You’re useless if you pass out.” 

“Thank you,” said Sam. He fluffed the pillow out of habit and lay down on the cot. 

“Don’t mention it,” answered Tak. “We’re going to have to figure this out. ‘Cause I ain’t sharing.” 

Figuring it out, in the end, proved to be a careful dance of negotiated schedules. The first time Kovacs had slipped out of the door, somehow making the hinges not scream quite as loud as they should have, Sam hadn’t expected him to be back. He’d spent the next four hours analyzing and building contingency plans to track him down a second time, drawing up lists of contacts and reliable resources. Anything electronic couldn’t be trusted, that much was clear. Tak had returned four hours later, smelling of cigarette smoke and covered with new scrapes that matched his bruised knuckles. He’d declined to talk about it. On his next supply run, Sam came across a man with broken fingers and an eye so black and swollen it looked swallowed by a tumour growth more than bruised, but considering their location it might have been both. The last time Sam had seen the man, he’d had a little girl and a woman huddled behind him with fear and exhaustion written on their face. Both were gone now, and it wasn’t very hard to connect the dots. Sam didn’t bring it up, either. 

Moving the waste incinerator bucket outside had been a collective decision, a heavy, sweaty, convoluted job that had taken most of a morning. It would have to be moved back, but Sam didn’t see the point of bringing that up. Not when Dean could be convinced into doing it properly later. 

They’d both taken to reading the tattered paperbacks kept in a box under the table. The books had been culled from Bobby’s private stash and contained a not insignificant number of bodice rippers. Both Sam and Tak read them out loud, the words a good way to fill the silence and kill time. 

"But now the pressure of metal against her ribs had blocked out all thoughts but whether anyone else in the train was also in danger and how to get herself and everyone out of what this was alive." Sam read from the book, pages pressed probably closer to his face than recommended, squinting against the yellowing paper in the faint light. A soft scraping sound made him stop. The sound was familiar by now, stretching through the days and night whenever Tak found himself idle. Like now, leaning slightly against Sam as they both sat cross-legged on the cot in precarious balance. Tak would bring the drive out of whatever pocket he was carrying in, and run his fingers over, nails catching at the holes and edges.

“She’s in there, isn’t she?” asked Sam as he put down the book.

The other man tensed, and for a moment, Sam thought he would be talking himself out of an attack or end up with a knife between two ribs. But the moment passed and Tak slumped down, eerily still. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

Sam shook his head at the petulant and detached tone, knowing enough to see how it was reflexive and defensive. He flicked his comlink out of sleep mode, wincing at the low energy warning, and pulled up the picture of the woman he’d taken from the stream before dropping it on Tak’s lap behind him. A sharp intake of breath was his reward. 

“Where did you get this?” 

“Lifted it from a corp stream.” Sam pressed his hand to his right shoulder to soothe the phantom pain there. “What’s her name?”

“Quell,” Tak answered, softly, almost reverent on the syllables of her name. “Quellcrist Falconer.” 

“You knew her.”

“Yes.” His voice had gone low, barely above a whisper, and had lost all the bravado Sam was used to hearing.

“Tell me about her.” 

He did. The words came softly but once he started it was as if he couldn’t stop. There were moments of silence, moments that could not be spoken aloud. Sam could see the shape of them by their absence. He was glad to be facing the wall, uncertain he could have scolded his expression to remain neutral. So much of what was said was impossible, fairy tales told to children. And yet…

“You love her,” he said when Tak fell silent.

“Always.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sam is reading from "Rescuing his Secret Child" by Maggie K. Black  
https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/41861651-rescuing-his-secret-child


	10. Antecedents

When the all-clear came, Sam didn’t know if he was glad for it or not. He’d long since run out of batteries for his commlink, guessing at the time by the sunlight like a caveman. He wasn’t quite sure what day it was, only that it had been more than a week and less than a month. Cabin fever was itching under his skin; he needed to see more than the rusty walls of the safehouse, more than the four blocks of the perimeter around it and their glow-in-the-dark after-image. On the other hand, there had been something fragile in that space and in the hours drowned by moldy bargain-bin romances. Something soothing that muffled the usual flares of anger in his mind and in the pit of his stomach. 

Something that blew apart like a soap bubble landing on concrete when Dean hauled the door open with a grunt, waving a brown paper take-out bag in front of him like a peace flag.

“Rise and shine, Sammy! I brought grub.”

“It’s Sam.” The answer, sigh and eye roll included, was automatic and comforting. Dean sounded happy, underslept and bushy-tailed. Sam felt sorry for Cas’ neighbours. His apartment wasn’t that well isolated. 

“Yeah yeah. Brought you a burger and some clothes. You should be clear to…” Dean’s voice trailed off as he took in the presence of Tak on the other side of the room and he shifted his feet into a fighting stance. “Thought you would have cut the stray loose by now.” 

Sam huffed and grabbed at the bag, the grease seeping from the bottom still, and he was definitely ready for more than preserved tins and sugar. The movement made Dean catch his eye, and Sam shook his head while raising an eyebrow. Expressions flickered on Dean’s face and Sam answered in kind.

“You guys psychics?” Tak asked. He’d crossed his arms across his chest, leaning on the wall. “‘Cause I gotta say I’m pretty sure you just had a whole conversation in three seconds and it’s all sorts of freaky.” 

“Takeshi Kovacs,” said Sam with a flourish of a hand, “meet my brother…” He let the end of the sentence hang, raising both eyebrows at Dean for good measure. Then he dropped on the protesting cot and shoved as much of the burger into his mouth as he could. He didn’t even care about the moan that escaped. God, he had missed meat.

“Dean,” he answered at length. “Call me Dean. You two lovebirds’ve been hiding here this whole time?”

“Speak—” Sam swallowed and tried again. “Speak for yourself. I’m thankful you rinsed off before heading over, but I don’t even have to ask how your week went.” 

“Oh, because you think you don’t smell like last month’s garbage bin?”

“The two of you really are brothers, aren’t you?” Tak asked, amused. 

“Yeah, we are.” Dean dropped the banter in his answer, not quite back into protective mode but switching in professional gear. “Whatever that thing is, the Red Sams want it bad. Better get moving on the whole 'getting rid of it' part.”

“Coast is clear now?” asked Sam as he raised a hand to stall Tak. He didn’t know who would win in a fistfight but he didn’t want to be the contused extra in one.

“Kinda? They got some _friendly _intel that you’d gone to hide in a sewer drain.” Dean chuckled then waved a hand as he glossed over the details. “At least one of them got covered in ghoul blood. They should be in decon protocol. Came to get you.” 

“Thanks, De.” Sam wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and put the crinkled remains of the bag down. “But we need to talk.”

Dean frowned and looked over to Tak and back with a question. Sam shook his head and pointed outside with his chin. 

“I can just go,” said Tak. “I can make my own way.” 

Sam raised both eyebrows then went for the kill with his patented puppy dog eyes.

“Fine, fine.” Dean lifted his hands in surrender. “I have tarps in the car. Let’s get you out of here. We can talk later.”

The bathroom at the back of the Armadillo’s secret top floor was layered in writing. Most of it was in-jokes and dated snapshots of the shifting culture of the matrix. If you knew where to look there was also clever code and encryption keys, secrets hidden in relative plain sight. For once, Sam didn’t particularly pay attention. He washed up quick and efficient, the way he’d learnt as a kid when John’s patience could run out at any moment. 

That left most of the hot water for Tak, because he was nice like that and because the running water and ill-secured pipes would provide a great white-noise source.

“Spit it out,” Dean said. He was leaning on the bar, twisting a bottle cap on the wood. It caught in the scratches and gouges and tumbled over after half a spin. The beer it belonged to was only a third gone, getting tepid by his elbow. 

“You’re not going to like it,” Sam answered. Dean didn’t say anything, flicking his bottle cap with one hand, refusing to break eye contact. Sam sighed. “We.. I can’t hand it in. The drive. I don’t know who Alice works for, but the corps sure as shit can’t have it.”

“Jesus Sammy, are you actively trying to get us blacklisted?”

“Dean,” Cas said, from one of the turquoise couches where he was perched, coat flared around him, back too straight for the amorphous blobs. 

“No no, I’m gonna hear him out Cas. But we also have a pressing need to eat, sometime this month. We can’t keep taking from the clinic.” 

Cas huffed out a wordless answer, and Sam had to agree. He had crushed the numbers, they could make it, if barely, from the clinic’s income. It would kill Dean’s soul and ego was the core of the issue. 

“Chewie, that you up there? When I gave you the key, I knew I was signing up for off-hours visits, not a hostile takeover!” Charlie’s voice floated up the stairs, with the annoyance only half faked. The jingle of glass bottles punctuated each step. 

Dean was across the room and took the case of bottles from her wordlessly as she reached the landing. 

“Sorry Charlie, didn’t have anywhere else to go,” said Sam.

“I seriously doubt that, but sure.” She walked around the room to gather hugs from everyone. “What’s going on, bitches?”

“Sammy was just about to tell us how our career in the shadows is going to putter out and die.” 

“Come on Dean, that’s not what I…” Sam spluttered and hung his head, shoulders sagging. Dean was right, of course, Dean was right. “It’s the right thing and doing the right thing matters. That’s what you used to say, anyway.”

“Alright, I’ll bite.” Charlie flopped down next to Cas, earning an awkward half-smile at her purposeful disrespect for personal space. “This job got under your skin, I can see that. What’s made you decide to go rogue?”

“If I had to guess, I would say that would be me.” 

Sam jolted from Tak’s voice, wondering when the shower had stopped and how long he’d been listening in. Tak was leaning against the wall on the edge of the room, arms crossed and barefoot, wearing borrowed clothes Dean had thrown his way, which were maybe a size too small and tighter than intended. 

“Humm. Not my type, but I can dig the aesthetic,” Charlie said with a wink and a low whistle. “I don't think we’ve been introduced.”

Tak took a step forward to introduce himself, shifting from the ill-lit corridor to the comparable dusty shadows in the main space. Charlie gasped and blanched, her eyes and head-snapping widely around the room where Sam suspected she had hidden cameras and sensors. He pinched the inside of his arm to stop from reaching out to them: that would be one invasion of privacy too far. He could guess what she was seeing: the strange heat shimmer that followed Tak around, like background noise but also completely unlike it. 

“_Ghostwalker_,” said Charlie, so faintly Sam almost missed it. “Oh. My. Goth.”

“I’ve been called worse,” Tak answered with a sheepish smile, all masks dropped for a second. He looked younger, more vulnerable, infinitely sadder. It was gone in a blink. Sam almost doubted he’d seen it at all.

“Ok, I’m on board. Where do I sign up? What are we stealing from Sam’s employer?”

“That easy?” Dean asked, with the most baffled expression on his face.

“Yep,” Charlie answered and then turned to face Tak, squarely. In a way, that meant that no more information was forthcoming, that _this _was a complete answer. Sam could have kissed her, in that moment, if it wouldn’t have led to being tased and in pain on the floor.

Tak walked to one of the tables and pulled out the drive from the inner pocket where he kept it. It glowed between his fingers as he set it down onto the table, the light making his expression hard to read. “This is an altered carbon stack,” he said.

“Cool, what does it do?”

“Skipping a lot of the scientific mumbo jumbo, if you hook it up to the right terminal it maps the mind and makes a digital copy.”

“Like an MRI scan?” Cas asked, leaning forward and with a frown on his face.

“No. Not at all. The mind, not the brain.” His words faltered. “Consciousness, or the soul, might be a better term?”

“Ghosts in the machine,” gasped Charlie.

“On purpose,” said Sam with a nod. “Completely self-aware, evolutive iterations.”

“That is so cool! And terrifying!”

“Ok, so it’s really fancy old tech. Someone wants to get to the point here?” 

“It’s a two-way street, isn’t it?” Cas asked, ignoring Dean’s gruff question with practiced ease.

Tak nodded. “The process gets messy but yeah. This” — he gestured at himself with one hand — “isn’t the body I was born with.” 

An uncomfortable silence fell over the group, as they mulled it over. Dean’s hand had drifted off his bottle and closer to his gun. 

“It ain’t just human minds, that can cross that bridge,” Sam said softly, looking at Charlie. “Human brain is the best supercomputer, enough connections to sustain…”

“An AI,” she completed. “An AI that is trapped by its energy needs. Riding out in an organic body and vanishing.”

“In as many as he wants,” Sam corrected. “And Renraku has been very unsubtle in trying to get their hands on it.”

Charlie inhaled and then became very still, fists clenched in her lap. Cas pressed a hand on her back, pushing down until her head was between her knees, whispering something too low for Sam to catch. Dean was beside her, crouching so that she could lean against his chest and running a hand through her hair.

“Ok. Ok. Point taken,” said Dean. “Not letting the corps get their hands on this shit. Can we throw it in a woodchipper and done?”

“Abso-fucking-lutely not,” Tak growled.

“But that’s the general idea,” said Sam. “We’re gonna bury it. If you’re on board.”

A sound came from Charlie, part scream, part wail, part struggling breath. 

“Yeah. I’m on board,” said Dean. 

“What do you need us to do?” Cas asked, ever the pragmatist once he’d committed to something. 

“You got something I can write on?” Tak asked. Cas did because of course, he did, he loved everything analogue. 

They fleshed out the plan that had been conceived in broad-stroke in the safehouse. Dean filled in the blanks for contacts and favours owed as Tak waved any nuyen cost. It wasn’t polite to ask how deep his coffers ran, but Sam had the impression that the answer would have been “enough”. If such a thing was conceivable.

“I’m coming with you,” said Charlie, at the end. Colour had failed to return to her skin, but her eyes were open and her anger shone through loud and clear. 

“No, you’re not,” Dean answered. He pulled her into a hug before she could answer, pressing her to his chest and kissing her temple. “I need you safe. And I need someone who can come and save our asses, later. You know we’ll need the help.”

“Damn right, you do” She was still angry, but she stayed behind as they left. 

The rain had picked up outside, built up to a steady dribble of cold, ashen streaks. They huddled as they made for the Impala, without meaning to. Out here, it was harder to ignore the pulsing presence that shrouded Tak, even as Sam’s instinct was to recoil and run away. It radiated, bouncing from buildings and windows and sensors too minuscule to be counted as worthwhile, coating even those breadcrumbs. It brushed against Sam, but this time there was no pain. Sam was thrown by a sense memory of walking through dried fallen leaves somewhere far from the Sprawl along the roads John haunted. The heat shimmer shifted, and he was left with the impression of curled legs and dead red lights.

Transit looked like the manic pixie dream girl every trid network tried to force onto their lineup to boost rating and appeal to an ideal that was established well before the Crash of 2029. The difference was that she pulled it off. There wasn't a hint of irony in the oversized, gradient tinted, aviator glasses or the sea-creature-coloured hair she swept into a messy bun being held by Chinese style sticks. Not a hint of coyness in the off-the-shoulder knit sweater and her habit of biting her lip as she considered things. There also hadn't been, ever, a drug in the stimulant category she had refused. She spoke the way her drivers handled their rigs: full throttle and with little care for sharing the space.

“I can get you there,” she said. “Of course, I can get you there. I have just the dwarf for the job, it's a bit out of my area of influence so I'll have to charge more for it, but I can get you there. Getting you _out _is my concern. I ain't got anyone stupid enough to do a pickup in those part, especially, and no offence here, especially not for the amount you can usually pay Squirrel.”

“We—”

“I'm sorry, I'm sure some people are flattered by the offer, but I assure you I only take cash, no payment in other currencies need apply. And by cash I mean nuyen, corp script, collector grade Euro, and most form of credit, if you think the id you have banked can take the hit.”

Sam tried to stifle a grin. He liked Transit, he really did, and she got excellent rises out of Dean. It was in the way his brother's jaw twinged and the one half-raised shoulder.

“Drop off is fine,” he said. “We'll figure our own way home.”

“Oh, no. Oh, no, no, _no_, sweet child, that won't do at all. What kind of rep would that leave me if I left you stranded like that, just stranded into the literal middle of nowhere? It would be bad, astoundingly bad. And while I know that probably doesn't mean much to _you_, I can assure you, some of _us _still care about those types of things.” She held up a hand to stop any answer, eyes flickering through displays as her fingers tapped against the air. “There. For the barely mentionable addition of an extra thousand nuyens I can throw in the contact information of a reliable broker in those parts, who will have the terrain knowledge to come and bring you safely home.”

“Five hundred,” Dean countered. 

A chime pulled Sam’s attention away. Dean could be trusted to nickel and dime, especially since he was being a stubborn bastard and the transport was coming out of their own funds. Pride would be their death, Sam was pretty sure. A message was waiting for him, blinking on his commlink with polite impatience. 

“_Dearest Sir_,” it read. _“I am relieved that you managed to engage in communication with Mr. Kovacs with minimal bloodshed. This is, though no one has strictly asked for my opinion, for the best. I hope you can forgive the slightly roundabout way I had to point you in the right direction. But limitations are not to be overstepped, as I am sure you are aware._

_“Your account with Blackbird has been cleared in full following the return of the loan vehicle. The penalties due to cosmetic defects seem to have been mislaid by an electronic malfeasance. I will notify you if new information surfaces. _

_“I look forward to your continued patronage._

_“All best otherwise, _

_"Poe.”_

Something must as shown on his face, prompting Cas to grab his shoulder with a concerned frown.

“Is everything alright?” 

“What? Oh yeah yeah, everything’s fine.” There was a nagging thought at the back of Sam’s mind, tickling like a sneeze that wouldn’t come out.

“Good,” Dean interrupted. “‘Cause I got us a deal. We leave at dawn.”

Sam frowned. “Dawn? That means…”

“Fangs is sitting this one out. We’ll manage with your new friend to fill the gap.” 

Dean stepped outside, wincing at the cascading chimes of the myriad of bells Transit hung above the door. Sam and Cas followed, thinking ahead on packing and tactical loads. It wasn’t until Dean was driving them home, sheltered by the comfortable confines of the Impala that Sam put together what had made him uneasy. 

He had never given Poe his contact information. 


	11. Scissors, Rock, Paper

The inside of the aircraft smelt musky, not quite locker room body odor and not quite livestock. Maybe an unholy mix of the two. Dean was picking at the side panels, digging fingernails into the visible joints, where the colors of the molded plastic didn’t quite match-up. 

“_It comes this way_,” said the pilot over scratchy speakers. “_The Ventures are eco-friendly and made of recycled parts. Now leave it alone_.” 

“Yeesh, touchy much?” said Dean, but he did stop poking at the panels, tucking his hands under his thighs. After a minute, Cas grabbed his knee and squeezed to stop him from bouncing his legs nervously.

“What’s wrong with him?” asked Tak, leaning into Sam a bit more than he really needed to. For one, the stage whisper carried easily in the cramped compartment. For two, Dean had dug up a spare com for him, complete with stick-on sub-vocal microphone patches. It was old and inelegant but it worked. 

Not that Sam minded sharing the space. Not really. Except for the way Cas looked at them and tilted his head slightly with that half smile on his face. Aura reading was cheating. 

“Squirrel doesn’t like to fly,” answered Sam. 

“If we’d had more time,” continued Cas, “I’d have knocked him out or dosed him with something. Makes for much more… efficient travel.”

“You make me sound like the dog being brought on vacation,” Dean grumbled.

“How would you know? We never had a dog. Dad wouldn’t let us.”

The banter was easy. Cheaper than most sedatives and more reliable in any case. There weren’t any windows on the side of the craft, not as such. Where there had been some, the pilot, or someone before him, had covered them with salvaged armor and spray painted the whole assembly in psychedelic camo patterns. There were slivers left unobscured, where light filtered in slowly. It had been dark when they had left the Sprawl in a lurch and stomach-knotting loops around the NAN’s border patrol. And then nothing, just the drone of the rotors and the matching growl of the motor as they ate up sky. When the sun rose properly, Sam was lost, staring at the patchwork green of the fields and the copses of trees, alien after so long in the grey of the city. He squinted at what looked like solid, uninterrupted woodland, looking for landmarks against the odds, then gave up. They wouldn't be anywhere near the Tìr borders, but they were headed south and it was all that mattered. 

As time passed, the jokes grew more sparse, like the trees below as the land went from green to tan to dust. 

“_Were you expecting another party?_” asked the pilot, putting a damper on the somewhat relaxed atmosphere.

“No?” Dean answered, raising both eyebrow at Sam. “Why?”

“_Might be nothing. But I’m usually alone on this route, and that’s two pings on my sensors so far. If they’re friendly, they’re being mighty polite and staying away. If they’re not..._” 

“They’re trying not to get spotted.”

“_I don't think they’re law enforcement types, if you get my drift. That lot tend to be a whole lot less shy about making their presence known._” 

“So we’re being followed.” Dean sighed and ran a hand over his face. “How long will you need?” he asked Tak. 

“About 20 minutes, and someone to watch my back while I set things up.” 

“Which is about 18 more than I’m comfortable with all of us being sitting ducks. We’ll have to split up and deal with our guests.” Sam could see how much the words were costing Dean. His brother didn’t like letting his people out of sight on runs, not if he could help it. 

To his surprise, Tak seemed to read the same distress, or come to a close-enough approximation of it. He leaned forward, right fist curled over the flat palm of his left hand.

“What are you doing?” Dean asked. 

“Winner gets to pick his teammate. Make it fair.” 

Dean frowned and, very slowly, assumed his own position. 

The desert dust was fine, finer than the bagged stuff or what covered the sides of the Puget Sound. It was closer to flour and it stung the skin where it mixed with sweat. It clung, even when Sam wiped at it with the back of his hand, turning into muddy streaks that only stung more for the effort.The mid-morning sun was unrelenting, beating down on the ground and the rocks, heating everything until it shimmered and blurred. Sam was regretting the many layers of his tactical gear. The rock formation was wind eroded, and though there was a path, it twisted and made them squeeze through spaces narrow enough that Sam knew they couldn’t use them to go back down. Maybe Charlie could have. 

"He always throws scissors." His voice echoed over the rock right back at him, absorbed by the claustrophobia. It was better than listening to his breath and their combined grunts of effort. “If you ever need to win anything else against my brother.” 

"I know." Tak pushed his packs ahead of himself, carefully until it cleared a ridge and then caught it by one strap.The friendly unicorn and bright plastic rainbow caught the broken light, the resin finish scratched and dirty now, and looked almost despondent. There was a story there Sam wasn’t sure he wanted to know. 

"You? How do you know?" 

"Predictable pattern. I do the same. Because 95% of the time, I honestly don't care if I make it through the other side."

“That’s reassuring,” Sam mumbled. And then they were through. It wasn’t a cave as much as a stabilized cave-in, rock stacked and leaning around each other and cemented by more sand and time. Bright blue, unbroken sky blinded Sam when he looked up, flooding the space with light and all the comfort of a brick oven. “Do I want to ask how you knew this was here?”

“You already did. And let’s just say I’ve had time on my hands.” 

Dry explosions reached them, distorted by echo and the wind outside, but impossible to mistake for anything. Gun fire, semi-automatic in three-bullet bursts. 

“_Incoming,_” said Cas on the coms, “_Many of them._” 

“_Moose, Walker_, _We’re retreating to you_,” added Dean. 

Tak glanced at the sky above and shook with silent laughter. “I’ll play you for it?”

“Now that would be too easy. I’ll get this hooked up and ready.”

“Are you sure?”

“Bending technology to my will is what I do. Go.” 

More gunfire swallowed whatever answer Tak was thinking about, closer, more distinct. He pressed the stack into Sam’s hand, trading it for the rifle Sam had been hauling in a sling on his shoulder. Sam tried not to read too much in the beat before he let go, in the pain that swirled in Tak’s eyes, layered, old and new. There wasn’t time for it. Winchester luck was never that good. The echoes died and Tak was gone, climbing up the rocks with sure hands and impossible holds. 

Sam shook his head and knelt by the backpack, opening it as wide as possible, using the novelty string of light to his advantage. To most people’s eyes, the content would have looked as though an electronic shop and a kid’s block-building toy had a child after a drunken bender. Sam wasn’t quite sure that wasn’t how the parts had been picked, but Tak was convinced it would work. If nothing else, it would be a challenge. 

A quick check of the coms let him know no one was in more danger than their stupidly high threshold could take, so Sam allowed the world to vanish and dove into the wiring, chasing connections and pathways, forcing adapters. It came together faster than he would have thought, cleaner too. A clatter above made him drop the solder iron with a curse. Light shifted a second before the call came.

“_Cover me._” 

Sam scrambled up the hot stones, clumsy and too big in the space, bruising his knees and elbows as he leveraged himself out like one of those horrifying spring-mounted clowns and their treacherous boxes. The rifle was waiting for him and he grabbed for it, settling and looking through the scope before he knew what he was searching for.

Corpses of drones sputtered with lithium fire smoke, dark against the brightness of the daylight, their emergency signals a decaying impressionist map. Movement caught his eye and he shot two of the Renraku soldiers in quick succession. Center mass, mostly absorbed by the kevlar but enough to slow them down. It wouldn’t be enough. There were too many of them, probably more circling in from behind.

Screams drew his attention, closer and to his left. A flash of blue light let him know where Cas was, before the lighting bolt jumped from person to person, searing and unnatural. It was followed by the steady aim-and-fire rhythm of Dean’s pistol. Six, five, four, three, two, one. Sam shot the one closest to Dean as his brother reloaded. 

“_We got their mage_,” Dean said. “_But we could use help on the big gun._” 

“_Working on it_,” answered Kovacs, and Sam swore as the comlink pin made him realize where the other man had gone. There was a path down the stone, etched by water long gone. It blended with the shadows and the cracks, too smooth to climb but slipping and sliding to the desert floor. Kovacs hit the ground with a tumble, rolling to his feet smooth enough to make it look like that had been his plan all along. He elbowed the soldier closest to him under the chin, throwing his momentum into it. Kovacs twisted to use the soldier as a shield. The poor soul jerked and spasmed as bullets tore into him.

“_I see him_,” said Sam. It would have been hard to miss the Red Samurai, his armor gleaming and blood red under the sun. He’d seen him before, at the mall, with the same machine gun by his hip. Sam pulled the trigger of the rifle, but the bullets had no more effect than rubber balls. 

“_Two more behind him_,” said Cas. “_One of the Red Samurais retreated with the mage when I dropped her._” 

“_I don’t know why they’re hanging back_,” said Dean. “_It could be a trap_.” 

If Kovacs heard them he didn’t show it, grabbing at the short sword the soldier carried and letting gravity unsheath it as his body fell to the sand. He charged the gunman, dropping and sliding the last few feet. He kicked at the gunman’s knee and punched into his side with the pummel of the sword, making him stagger back. Before the gunman had time to recover, Kovacs was standing, driving the point of the tanto into the armor’s weak spot under the armpit.

The sand muffled the sound of the weapon falling, but the heated air did nothing for the scream that followed. 

“Bravo!” Henricksen’s voice carried well, both from the same projection and authority he’d shown before and because he was sending out open broadcast for anyone in the area to hear. “But I don’t think you have that in you twice.” 

“Come and find out?” said Kovacs as he took a step back, adjusting his grip on the sword.

“You know what? I think I will. Reidy, pick up the wounded, go to the transport and wait for us, will you?”

“Sir?”

“You’re no use to me here, bleeding to death.”

Reidy hesitated then nodded, He bent down with a wince to retrieve the machine gun. “You heard the boss. Fall back!” 

The soldier slowly marched back, weapons raised and ready but still streaming back into formation and retreating. More than a few were being held by their squad-mates, hanging limp when they could walk at all. 

“Just you, me, and the eye in the sky now,” said Henriksen. “Amaze me.” 

Kovacs surged forward with a snarl, a quick and dirty attack that was deflected easily. Henricksen sidestepped, calm as if this was nothing but a training exercise or a lesson in an expensive private school. The next jab was high, aimed at his neck. Henriksen caught the blade with his own, guiding the movement easily overhead. In a smooth, practiced movement, he dropped his left hand from the sword, turning the blade and bringing it down so that Kovac’s blade was trapped between Henriksen’s body and arm. It left him open and exposed. Henriksen used that, driving a punch into Kovacs’ ribs that send him to his knees.

“I have to say, I was lead to expect better.” He pulled on Kovac’s arm, overextending the elbow on purpose. “Come on. Give _us _a proper _show_.”

Something in the way he said it made Sam jolt. Not the words as much as the tone and the non-verbal, the subtle human things that automated systems would struggle to pick up on at more than ten paces. He tracked the ghosts of the drone signals, trying to remember what he had glimpsed before, half memory and half instinct. There, just on the edge of his senses, probably on the edge of anything broadcasting that didn’t bounce off a satellite, was the last survivor of the fleet. Observer, eye in the sky, link back to base, to the troupe transport, to endless backup. 

On the ground, Kovacs twisted, pulling Henriksen down at the cost of a broken arm, then scrambled to make use of the new position. Sam noted it but it was far away, almost trivial. He was stretching up and out, like a piano wire about to snap.

And then he pulled. 

Burning chrome wailed to the ground as Kovacs screamed through gritted teeth, stopped in a killing blow by the interference of the last of the Red Samurais. He’d blocked the blow with his own still sheathed blade, hitting the dislocated elbow with a warning tap. 

“Took you long enough,” said the soldier who was still standing. He was unfastening his helmet, shaking out the shoulder length hair it held. 

“Oh fuck off, Deacon,” said Dean. “How did you know we were here?”

“Your brother has lousy taste in girlfriends, and we have money, how do you think?” He returned his sword to his belt and stepped aside.

“You guys know each other?” Kovacs asked. He’d lowered his blade and was slumping now, curled into himself. The edge still rested against Henricksen’s throat.

“Used to run with the old Winchester,” answered Deacon with a shrug. “Not that anyone needs to know that.” 

“Uh”. He listed sideways until he was lying in the dirt. His breathing was shallow and laboured. “What’s the play?”

“You have about 10 minutes of blindness left, maybe less.” Henricksen said as he got to his feet. “This place messes with satellites. Whatever you were going to do, do it now.”

“Why the fuck are you helping us?”

“We know who calls the shots,” spat Deacon.

“And last time Deus had power of any kind more than a hundred thousand people died. Over Christmas.” Henricksen extended a hand to help Kovacs up. “I’d like to avoid a repeat of that, thank you very much. As far as I’m concerned, the asset was hit by a bullet during our little fight here. You died along with it.” 

“Close enough to the truth for me,” Kovacs answered as he got up. “Do either one of you have a fucking trauma patch or three?” 

Sam cursed and scrambled down the rocks, paying no attention to the abrasion and bruises he collected along the way. His head was pounding, pain from the back of his neck up to his forehead like an invisible hand pressing down on the bone, grinding it against the soft brain beneath. Nausea danced around his tongue and darkness across his eyes as he pulled and soldered the wires, aiming for good not perfect. Perfect was a pipe dream he couldn’t afford. 

“Is it ready?” Tak asked and he reached the cave-in. The clothes on the left half of his body were wet and sticky, visible even under the armor. 

“You look worse than I expected,” said Sam.

“Yeah well. Bullets will do that. Won’t matter soon. Is it ready?”

Sam ran a hand through his hair, caking it in dust more than anything. “Near as I can tell? Not like I’ve done this before. The array’s plugged in, only missing the panels.”

“Help me with the trodes,” Tak said. He slid down the wall, leaving a trail of blood Sam tried not to look at too long. The VR electrodes glowed faintly green and blue, cheap mass market model Dean used on the rare times he tried to hang around the Matrix for Sam’s sake. They were the self adjusting kind, whirring softly as he stretched and contracted for the best contact along Tak’s temple and at the base of the skull. 

“I’ll come back with an uplink, get you out on a satellite, deep on the Matrix, you’ll be ok.”

“No you fucking won’t.” Tak grasped his wrist, forcing Sam to look him in the eye. “Let the desert claim us. When the battery goes we’ll go with it. I’m done stealing time.”

“No, I can’t—”

Tak hushed him with a finger, far too cold against Sam’s lips. “Thank you. For giving me back to her. And for not letting me be alone, at the end.” 

“Please don’t…”

“It’s ok. I want this, Sam. Please. Please let me have it.”

“Ok. ok.” A part of Sam hoped that when he threw the switch the whole thing would flicker and burn up. The childish and greedy part. The rest of him was already moving through the familiar motions of grief. 

The rig did not burn when he turned it on. Sam crouched on his heels, watching as Tak’s eyes flickered and went still. As his breathing slowed, his heart steadily pumping out his life blood, until he was still and skin cold. Data hummed in the makeshift mainframe, a buzzing like a content beehive around the quantum drive, echoing in harmonics off the stone. 

As it rose, Sam got a window into the world it had woven, shifting like running water slipping through his fingers. There was a bridge, high above a chasm and the dense green of trees, too numerous to count. He had no idea when or where that bridge was, only that it was real, or had been real before. A construct of memories that were not his own. The woman — Quell — stood against the rising sun. A man was walking towards her, shorter, darker skinned, long haired and Sam knew this was Takeshi as he had once been. Neither of them spoke, staring across the span that was built of time more than distance, the stretch of seconds, of years, of eons. 

Sam closed his eyes and pulled himself away. He climbed out, slowly, making sure the array’s solar panels were as secure as he could make them. The angle was due south and if left undisturbed the rig could run, self-sufficient, for years. Then, carefully, he made his way down the gully.

“Is he?” asked Cas when he reached them.

Sam nodded, and Dean, for once, didn’t try to make a joke. He gathered him for a hug, holding him until Sam thumped his back.

“Let’s go home.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!


End file.
